Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Read All About It
Martha detests the way I read the newspaper. I look at a headline, read the first one or two sentences, and then I explode into a million little brain pieces.
“LISTEN TO WHAT THIS ASSHOLE’S DONE NOW!” I shriek, and then I yell all the parts that piss me off. More often than not I sum up the article with a stern lecture, take a gulp of orange juice for my sore throat, and then move on to the next headline. “LISTEN TO WHAT THIS ASSHOLE’S DONE NOW!” I shriek, and I’m off on the lecture circuit again.
I suspect that I'm irritating. Why I have to shriek and yell I have no idea; perhaps I am constitutionally unable to whisper my outrage. The bloom isn’t exactly on Martha’s rose at 5:30 in the morning. The poor thing likes to snooze over her first three cups of coffee and there I sit, bellowing at her like an un-milked cow. It’s a wonder she hasn’t put tarantula poison in my Lucky Charms, which would not be at all lucky for me. We drive the guy at the newspaper office nuts. She calls and stops our subscription, I call back and start it again, then she calls him back, and then I . . .
Lately, Martha has been giving the paper a bath in the lawn sprinklers before she brings it in the house. “Dammit, the paper is soaked again!” she says, shaking her head while holding the bone-dry crossword and sudoku puzzles behind her back. It’s amazing how innocent she looks when she’s lying through her teeth. It scares me because somewhere within my beloved lies the homicidal heart of a cold-blooded, newspaper-screaming husband-dismemberer.
Perhaps a mild sedative and some blood pressure stuff would help me deal with reality . . .