Mate, mate, mate

My spider-sense is vibrating like a jackhammer. If I had an ice cube it would be quickly transformed into crushed ice. I’m a wanted man and I sense the cross-hairs. I’m the deer in the headlights on a cold winter night (emphasis on cold), with a maniac behind the wheel. I AM the bull’s-eye.I am a jackass bearing a heavy load. I am the fox and the vicious dog is approaching. I am the hunted.

Shall I continue? No, I shan’t.

I am not an animal! (But wait I believe I am what I am.)

I’m beginning to think that my mate doesn’t love me anymore. I asked for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and she made me a peanut butter and saliva sandwich. That’s just not the same, and it doesn’t taste the same either. (I’m shaking my head, that’s the rattling sound you hear.) The saliva adds some sort of watery substance.  And all because I made an infinitesimal error in judgement, nothing more than a minor faux pas. A mistake I surely admit, a boo-boo. But do I really deserve to be in the doghouse with an empty bowl?

I discovered my good pants on the lawn this morning with her muddy footprints on it, but somehow she knows nothing about it. Apparently she dances in her sleep. My best shirt accidentally ironed itself to death; she wanted me to try it on and it was on fire! My hat was discovered smoldering in the microwave. My golf clubs are missing but they were in the closet before I took my nap. I tried to sleep with one eye open but I was afraid she poke it. That’s one thing they don’t tell you about sleeping with your eyes open, it leaves you vulnerable to eye poking.

She is quite adamant that I be buried in the beautiful cemetery on the hill overlooking the lake, but I’m not even dead. Yet she’s hired someone to dig the hole, paid with my credit card of course.

I didn’t club a baby seal or kick a senior citizen. I didn’t kick my mother-in-law although I did consider it a few times. She can’t read minds can she? PLEASE TELL ME SHE CAN’T!!!!!! I did not look at another woman while we were in the mall. (I wear metallic sunglasses so she can’t tell where I’m looking.)

Listen, I forgot her birthday. Is that a crime?

I am nine on the ten most wanted list. Number ten is my mother for giving birth to me. I have to be on guard at all times and it’s nerve-wracking. I nodded off in church and awoke screaming. All meals are now scorched beyond recognition. If I ask what it was before it was incinerated, a reasonable question, I get a look that could launch a thousand ships, on fire. It’s a challenge for me to boil water and I’m hungry. Peanut butter and saliva are not that nutritional. How many calories in saliva?

I bought ticket to Fiji but she told me that I should go to a place that’s a lot hotter. Blood-curdling scream is a mild description of her reaction; the mailman threw the mail and fled, wildly pepper spraying the air as he ran.

So what is wrong with a belated birthday? The simple answer to that is EVERYTHING. It’s too late to make it up to her, and I can’t go back in time. God knows I’ve tried. That pirate ship with all it’s oblivious pirates has sailed, dragging their anchor behind them.

But I’ve got the hang of it now. The last three days I’ve been organizing a calendar with all those important dates. See, right there is shows that tomorrow is, ah, wait, let me calculate this properly. (I’ll use my fingers)


I’ve got to get out of here! Where are my legs! Where are my legs! Oh, I see that she has them over there.

Un oh.