I’m ghost-writing a book. Unbeknownst to me, my husband writes the following in the manuscript:
The toilet. This is where you go to poo or pee. If you poo, wipe your butt.
Which would’ve been funny if I had noticed it before I sent it to the CEO I’m writing the book for.
Him: “I THOUGHT YOU WOULD’VE SEEN IT! IT WAS IN GIANT TEXT, BOLDED AND UNDERLINED! IT WAS A JOKE!”
Him in a small voice: “What’s going to happen to me?”
Me: “I will be drafting an apology e-mail to the CEO. You will sign your name and send it from your e-mail address. And that will be that.”
Here’s the e-mail:
Dear Mr. Amrack:
My name is Joe, and I am Alice’s sorry excuse for a husband. Nice to meet you! Alice mentioned that you received a draft of the manuscript with some nonsense in it. That was my fault. I was goofing around on her computer when she wasn’t looking.
Why would I write something so idiotic? Basically, because sometimes I can be a maniacal, pinheaded nutfarmer who finds anything to do with the anus, dick, balls, toilets, poop, semen, and pee funny.
I meant it to be a joke. Instead, it turned into evidence supporting my wife’s long-held theory that I might suffer from a slight strand of Asperger’s. Or full-blown mental retardation.
She says that nothing but a chemical imbalance could explain why I do things like tell my three-year-old cousin the graphic details of his bris. Or why I think it’s okay to act out someone “double jerking it” into my parent’s Labrador Retriever’s open mouth Christmas morning.
Mr. Amrack, in one week (if I make it that long), my wife and I fly to Paris to celebrate our one-year anniversary. That is 14 HOURS OF BEING ON A PLANE TOGETHER.
As a married man, I am sure you realize that I will be punished far beyond what is necessary or reasonable. I acknowledge that I will be living in my own, personal Hell, orchestrated by my stupidity and carried out by my wife — a woman who the government could rely on to execute kittens or baby lambs if humanity suddenly needed their meat for some reason.
Today I was fired.
The best part about your partner fucking up so badly is that every bad thing you’ve ever done is now obsolete.
Him: “There’s a poisonous snake in the garage!”
We go to the garage.
Him: “I’m going to trap it.”
I sever the snake in half with a shovel. I look at my husband pointedly. Then I go back inside.
I bring home his favorite Baskin Robbins ice cream sundae.
His eyes lite up, and he shouts, “Thanks, babe!”
Then I smash it into the floor.
He’s watching the season finale of “Game of Thrones.”
I casually walk into the living room, casually announce the ending and casually walk back out.
I tell him that I’m over it.
But first I make him buy me a scarf from Anthropologie.