BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I keep stuff.

No… I’m not a hoarder. Well… Not in the sense of having piles of crap everywhere. In fact, as we have aged, E K and I have been streamlining and jettisoning our excess crap. What I’m talking about keeping is information. In particular, electronic documents containing cut and pastes of things I found interesting, things I’ve written, notes I’ve taken… That sort of stuff. So, while it is a bit of a hoarding situation, at least my stash is contained to a 1 terrabyte HD that still has all sorts of room on it – therefore, when I up and croak, my kid isn’t going to have to do much other than hit delete… Unless, of course, she decides to sell the info to someone. Who knows? Some of what I wrote might be worth a nickel or two after I’m all corpsified.

So, anyway, as I was organizing my electronic piles of data, I ran across one of my exchanges on FB that I had felt compelled to copy and paste. I still get a chuckle out of it. Y’all might too. Or not.

ME: Dining room floor stripped, scrubbed, steamed, waxed, and buffed. Supper installed. Now continuing Beer 6.0 installation.

MARY: wow! I can’t seem to find that program on the microsoft website… can you direct me? I will even buy a pirate copy if needed. LOL!

ME: Which one, Mary? Beer 6.0 or adult playdate? 🙂

MARY: Beer 6.0 I don’t need – I have Wine 6.0; Adult playdate is already installed and currently running, I’m talking Handyman 7.0. LOL!

ME: Ohhhh, that one. Well, you see Handyman 7.0 is a forced install by my sysadmin, E K and it takes some adjunct software to get it running. She generally starts with booting into her secondary operating system, Dominatrix 8.2.6, then locally installs Stiletto Heels 5.0, Leather 9, and Whip 10.7A. After that she does a remote format then pushes a ghost image of Subservient Husband 4.2 across the network. Once SH is up and running all versions of Handyman, up to and including 8.0 Beta install with no issues whatsoever.  She’s invested quite a bit in the upgrades too. I can’t begin to name them all, but in the way of add-on modules she even has stuff like Electrician 2.8, Groundskeeper 3.0, Chef 2.1, Masseur 5.9, and Plumber 1.5.3 (although she hacked the latter to insert a “no butt crack” subroutine)…

And there you have life at my house…

More to come…

Murv

First she steals my heart…

Then she steals my freedom…

Next she steals my French fries… (right off my plate)

And then she steals my virginity… Wait… No… That was already gone.

Thing is, now she’s stealing my schtick.

Yeah, I know, Richard Castle is already doing that, but I can’t say too much about that. Last time I did I pissed off the fan club shill.

But, even with everything else, now E K – Her Supreme Evil Redheaded Goddess Techno MILF – is taking my schtick. No, not that schtick… She got that one even before we were married, and she doesn’t even let me see it, much less play with it anymore.

I’m talking about the part where I’m funny.

Okay, stop laughing, I am too funny.

Seriously. Enough.

All right then… So, there I was, engaged in my morning routine. You know, the one that starts at 5:30 AM where I get the coffee going, then give her Eebilness a back massage, followed by setting out her breakfast stuff, yadda yadda…

And that’s when it happened.

There she was, the Eebil Redhead, standing in the kitchen in her sheer black negligee and stiletto heeled mules, as she does every single morning, looking like she had just stepped out of the pages of a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog…

Wait… That was while I was still asleep. Let’s fast forward a bit…

There she was, the Eebil Redhead, fiery hair sticking out at all sorts of odd angles, one eye shut, clad in sweats and a fuzzy bathrobe. How’s that for truth in advertising?

Anyway, she was standing at the counter peering into a fresh box of Raisin Bran. If you remember my previous blog entries, you know that E K must have Raisin Bran every morning, otherwise people suffer – namely me. I came around the corner just in time to see her eyeball the contents, then eyeball the bowl she had just filled. She did this a couple of times, then closed the top on the box and began to shake it in a most violent fashion. She bounced it up and down, rattled it, beat it on the counter, slung it around in a circle, then shook it some more.

Then she opened it, eyeballed it, eyeballed the bowl, and then did it all over again.

Unable to take it any longer I asked, “Ummmm… What in the world are you doing?”

“Imma rebbstrupping nabn race pins,” she mumbled. You have to understand, when she’s half asleep she speaks the same language she does when she’s drunk (See: Gimme Mai Shooz…)

“What?” I asked.

“Imma rebbstrupping nabn race pins.”

“What?” I asked again, because that’s what I say when I don’t understand someone. Truth is I’ve been saying that a lot lately.

With an exasperated sigh, she cocked her head, put a hand on her hip, drew in a breath and half yelled, “I’m redistributing the raisins!”

“Oh, okay…” I replied. I stood and watched her in silence for a moment, then asked, “Why?”

She pointed at the bowl and said, “Two scoops in every box and I’ve got one of ’em right here.”

I love you honey. I even obey you and try not to complain too much when you beat me severely, use me as a doormat, and steal my French fries…

But now you’re crossing the line. Observational Satire and the associated witty commentary are MY things. You need to stick with being unbelievably smokin’ hot and incredibly evil. It works for you.

Me, on the other hand, humor is all I’ve got.

More to come…

Murv