TMI – Three Mile Island or Too Much Information? You Decide, Part I

April 28, 2018

Written by

 

Everyone has their little quirks and oddities. For women, the goal is to find someone who can put up with yours, or even find them charming and appealing. Sadly, there will be many stupid and intolerant men you may be forced to interact with before Prince Channing Tatum comes along and acknowledges your Bridget Jones’ peculiarities for what they really are: precious differentiators that make you the amazing, unique, beautiful, amazing, snowflake you truly are. For men, the goal is to find someone who can point out the error of your ways and “strongly suggest” aka - force you via ultimatums of physical and emotional (and if they’re really good, spiritual) nagging. There is nothing more refreshing than being told how you did things for literally your entire life before you met this wonderful person was incorrect and needs to be rectified immediately. The quirk was tolerated on the first few dates, but needs to be addressed and solved immediately because her mother is coming over in eight minutes. And, you need to become the man she lied to her family by saying you already were. So shape up, fucker!

 

My wife is definitely sighing right now as she is reading this. I can guarantee she is saying, “I HAVE NEVER FORCED YOU TO CHANGE!” Just for that, I’m going to put trash in the sink again and see what she does when she sees it. I guarantee you it won’t be an “I love that you insist on driving me nuts by being a thoughtless jerk by persisting to put trash in the sinks when the trash bag is literally right next to them. I’m so lucky I married someone with so many adorable quirks!” My most charming and appealing quirk is I tend to zone out when my wife is asking me to do something that would make our life easier. As this is her one and only marriage, she hasn’t fully grasped the concept of matrimony. Our duty is not to make life easier for one another, you do that during dating. Once you’re married, the roles become a contest to see who can outlast the other and receive that fat life insurance payout.

 

So, my wife noticed a peculiar habit I had relatively early on in our relationship. I was not aware of this, but thankfully after almost a decade of knowing each other, the “Miracle Worker” has cured the issue. The quirk is in the moments of what should be post-coital (millennials: after boning) bliss, instead of cuddling and saying loving things to each other as we tuck the sheets just under our armpits, I would take that moment to light up a cigarette and regale her with truly embarrassing stories about myself.

 

When you think about it, it’s kind of a strange thing to do. Actually, you don’t need to do any deep thought whatsoever. It’s fucking bizarre. I just figure if someone is going to be laughing after intimacy, it better be because I just shared, “How Where The Red Fern Grows Caused My First Concussion,” not because of my most recent performance bumping uglies. Maybe it’s intended to cause the romantic partner to reconsider who they just agreed to be physically intimate with. “Oh great, I just let a guy inside me who was too stoned to know his ass was hanging out of his pants as a waiter at an upscale restaurant”. Maybe I did it as a moment of vulnerability where if you liked me enough to let me see your boobs, then you’ll like me enough to accept my first public bathroom shit resulted in me chasing a school bus to an away soccer game. Losing the backup JV to the JV right wing somehow wasn’t compelling enough for the bus driver to stop, or from my supportive “teammates” to not stop from assembling by the back door windows and laughing hysterically and pointing at me. Maybe it’s because the stories are so embarrassing yet, funny that it will motivate the woman to repeat the procreative experience again. It’s like chewing Bazooka Joe bubble gum. The gum itself is barely consumable, but the payoff is seeing what hijinks Bazooka Joe gets into in the comic.

 

So, occasionally I will share with you, dear readers, some of these stories.

 

Is it acceptance that sharing these stories will help me overcome my trauma and issues? No, of course not. It’s because you bastards are very demanding in being amused and I’m running out of material. Plus, these stories are in Mrs. Fisher’s “Hall of Fame” and she’s kind enough to let others realize what a complete tool I was growing up. I think she’s hoping I don’t sleep with each and every one of you before I share these stories, but hey, think of the plethora of new embarrassing stories I would have to tell her! The first of these stories is called, “High School Hindenburg: A Full Nuclear Meltdown of My Self Esteem, Starring Three Stupid Twats.” Tune in next blog to find out! And, dress sexy.

Please reload