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In order to understand completely the tragedy that is me, I'd like this completely objective audience to consider the outside possibility of flawed DNA. At the high-functioning end of the spectrum a male can tolerate chick-flicks in small doses, the opera on rare occasions, and during profuse shedding of tears grit his teeth and turn off the game long enough to give the perception of listening. Pitifully the days I perform in 'disguise' are limited and my wife is left to suffer. Her body language is unmistakable. She and I both realize her life would have been significantly less complicated had she remained single and visited the sperm-bank, choosing more desirable 'seed'. Perhaps the public education system in a rural community is to blame, although they seemed to sufficiently cover the basics. Miss Stuckey was a fine teacher, and in every sense of the word, I do mean fine! If only half the rumors circulating the school were true, and secretly I hoped that they were. Ah…never mind, I've slipped from my Dr. Jekyll persona into Mr. Hyde once again; it's such a fine line. In between catnaps I vaguely recall learning of chemical reactions. Calvin Kisselbach's devious lab partner convinced him he had invented a 'growth formula'. Calvin poured a full beaker of unknown origin down the front of his pants. Nurse Westnedge had never seen such severe burns and wasn't certain poor Calvin would ever produce offspring. It's probably best Calvin didn't produce any children anyhow, 'growth formula' or not. Back to the subject at hand; a high-definition television and associated circuitry seems virtually harmless, but once a testosterone-filled man is factored into the equation all hell breaks loose! As the remodeling project on my dining/family room neared completion, it dawned on me that the room needed one finishing touch. A large flat panel 1080i HD television and home theater system; the stuff dreams are made of! Scanning the advertisements in the paper each week became an uncontrollable ritual. My obsession did not go unnoticed; in passing, my wife mentioned my peculiar and persistent preoccupation. At first I dismissed the allegation, attributing her accusation to an over-active imagination. Yet there was no recourse when she directly confronted me with exhibit "A". She held before me drool-covered electronic ads with my DNA all over them. "Guilty as charged", I wailed. With my defense now reduced to a plea bargain, after much pleading on my part and little bargaining on hers, we struck a deal. She made no attempt at hiding her lack of desire in tagging along during the purchase; be still my heart! Instead she suggested my thirteen year old son go along. What a perfect opportunity to train up a man in the way he should go. During the drive into town my son revealed his true motives; a thirteen year old boy always has ulterior motives. He confessed to overhearing the discussions stating the Playstation 3 remained the logical choice when considering a blue-ray dvd player. A chip off the old block I tell you! We entered the store and the salesman pretended not to notice my glassy eyes and the perpetual smile. Perhaps because the place was filled with dozens of other zombies, it looked like 'Night of the Living Dead', electronics style. "Here to look a big flat screen television, are ya?" "Yeah-ummm, we're looking around a little…..starting to compare a few of them, you know. Nothing too serious yet; hey, by the way do you guy's honor you're competitors sale prices?" I wandered from set to set in a near catatonic state. Little of what the man said to me reached my brain in any coherent fashion. "How 'bout this jewel, as luck would have it this things still on sale for….another couple of hours; good thing you got here when you did. Come in close; not two or three measly hdmi inputs, but four…count em man. H….D….M….I, true 1080i high definition digital video screaming atcha in a 50" LCD format. The only thing you need now is 500 watts of surround sound to pin you back in that favorite easy chair of yours. You wanna feel the percussion from that explosion, don't ya man. Dude, you'll be turnin' guys away, beggin' to come over to your place to watch the big game!" As I walked from the store I rubbed my left cheek, attempting to restore the blood flow. I hadn't actually felt the hook penetrate, but I knew that it had. While in the store, only for a brief moment did I recall actually reaching a semi-state of conscious recollection. That was the moment just before we purchased the Playstation 3. Once the salesman mentioned the 'buzz-phrase' I glanced at my pitiful son. I suppressed a giggle. It seemed inappropriate, like passing gas at Uncle Ernie's funeral. There before me stood a miniature version of myself, eyes glazed completely over, drool visibly pooling at the corner of his mouth. I shook my head in disgust. My defective genes had been passed on, my wife's worst fears confirmed. After assembling the stand, unpacking components, and multiple attempts at configurations, I glanced at my watch. It was 11:45 and my entire family had already retired for the evening. Even my son had joined them, probably worn out from the experience, bless his little perverted soul. "Who needs 'em?" My trembling fingers inserted "Spider Man 3 Blue-ray edition" into the player and I settled into my favorite chair gathering all four remotes in my lap. There are not words to sufficiently describe the near-orgasmic experience that enveloped me. Not once did I allow my wife's shrieks to turn down the volume to interfere with the pure, pristine audio that pelted me. For a moment I envisioned angels hovering above the set! Just a side note, if any of you men are
considering a purchase in the near future there are repercussions.
Learn to embrace that near-orgasmic experience, because you will
likely be enjoying your new purchase alone on the couch, perhaps
for as long as…..well, three weeks and counting. You can read more of Dan's poetry at http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/ Send Dan a message either directly or using the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Dan visit the Word Catalyst archives or his online home. |
Cheshire Cat
Songs of
Picture a mother cradling a child peacefully in
her arms. The joy of loving and caring for her offspring has
somehow erased the horrific pain of the actual birth, not to
mention the filthy names she spewed at her husband. With any
luck this ugly story I'm about to spill onto this page will someday
have a redeeming quality to it also.
