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Monday, 14 August
Girls, Girls, Churl

This weekend the wife and I watched Cap'n Spielberg's most recent import-o-thon Munich. It was fine, if overlong, but maybe my attention span suffers these days from less ambitious projects such as Leprechaun Vs. Mecha-Spicoli in Space.

Anyway--and this is such a non-plot point that I don't care about spoiling it--at some point in the film after Eric Bana has slaughtered a bunch of dudes, he finds himself reunited with his wife, and is vigorously fucking her. You'd think he'd be delighted about this turn of events, but as he sweatily chisels away at her, we see that he's not! He is haunted by visions of all the violence that has infected his life to date, and hellishly, we see lots of guys being killed, replayed in his head, as he continues to joylessly fuck his wife. In this way, Spielberg explores the consequences of violence: for one thing, you might not like fucking your wife any more. For another: you might start to Hulk out when you're unhappily fucking your wife. It sure looked like Eric Bana was going there! But he didn't. Maybe he was thinking about Nick Nolte to rein himself in.

It was during this wrenching scene that I turned to my wife and calmly said, "You know, when we're having sex, I think about Arabs being murdered."

"That is so great," she said, looking appalled.

"Yep!" I replied. "Hot."

This sort of shitty behavior is really nothing new to me. I thought a bit about it over the rest of the weekend, and remembered some of the various ways I had maltreated the women who had passed through my life. I started to wonder: Why did any of these girls not stick a screwdriver into my temple?

Let's take the first wife, for instance, that incredibly ill-fated disaster. When we first moved to Seattle and got a tiny little studio to rent, for some reason, we found ourselves soon living in unbelievable squalor: beer bottles forever on the coffee table, recycling piling up in the corners, mutant rats chittering and wheezing as they swarmed over our comforter. It was really strange, and probably really indicative of how the relationship was bound to end up: condemned and unliveable.

I honestly do not remember the genesis of how this all transpired, but what I do remember is that among the empties on the coffee table was a liter bottle of long-since drunk Koala. And what I also remember is me saying, apropos of nothing, "That bottle's not so big. I bet I could fill it with piss."

The former wife begged to differ. "No way." So I marched to the bathroom and filled that sonuvabitch and emerged triumphant, holding the bottle of golden liquid aloft.

"See!" I cried. I set the awful thing down on the coffee table.

"Get that fucking thing off the coffee table!" she screamed. "You do it!" I countered. I was flush with victory and a good bladder-emptying. "I'm not touching it!" she cried again. "Neither am I," I said, and leaned back. We were at an impasse.

It sat on the coffee table for a week, until finally we had to clean up for some guests coming over. Who probably would have sensibly declined to do just that had they known what was occupying the coffee table for the prior week: one liter of cooling piss.

It is not surprising to me that we divorced, for a lot of reasons, but a lot of the time, I come back to that episode. I would occasionally sneak happy looks at the noxious bottle, and occasionally, I would half-tip it with my feet, threatening to break it, causing former wife no end of alarm. (I was the one who finally emptied it, glugging it out nervously into the toilet, wondering: Did we really just allow all that to happen?)

(It is also not surprising to me to remember that when the whole marriage fell apart, at one point, she launched a full can of beer at my head. It missed and completely destroyed a piece of pottery that she really liked. Which honestly? Was awesome.)

Later, I managed to completely infuriate a girlfriend by spending an evening wandering the neighborhood looking for places to eat, all the while bellowing every comment I had to offer in the voice of The Simpsons' Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel. "HEY MAW! LOOK'N AT THE CHI-NEEESE REST-RAWNT!"

"Oh my God," she hissed. "Will you shut up?"

"BRANDINE, YOU ARE A HELLCAT! WE'S GOT TO GET YOU BACK TO THE STRIPPER POLE SO'S YOU KIN WORK OUT YER EXCITE-MINT!"

"Shut up! Shut up!"

"YER STILL WORRIED ABOUT THEM SCABS! THEY FALL OFF, PICKIN' 'EM OR NO!"

It may be argued that sometimes I fail to recognize when to stop. It was, in retrospect, a tense evening. Later in the (brief) relationship, there was a me-drunken incident which ended with me catching a bus home at six a.m. wearing my pajamas and one contact lens. I'm still proud of the whole thing, as you might expect, and it never causes me to think about rending my own flesh, or casting myself into cleansing fire.

Oy.

But now, having been married for a few years to a good woman who seems to understand me (or tolerate me), I like to think I've calmed down. I've mellowed.

I'm long past those things like when I got engaged to my now-wife, without whom I cannot imagine existence. And I kind of mean that. Shortly after we got engaged, we for some reason--probably it was the terrible horror movies, even then--employed the phrase, "I don't want you to die!" I think usually after some young lover got an axe in the lungs or something. "I don't want you to die!" It was our jokey (yet heartfelt) in-joke.

Some short time later, though, I explained to the wife what I'd do if she did die.

"I'll get a little hammer," I explained, "and then I'll knock out all your teeth. Then I'll have your teeth strung onto a chain, and when I'm up to it, I'll go to friends' houses and parties. Occasionally, I'll hold up this necklace to my ear and rattle it, and when people ask what I'm doing, I'll say, 'Oh, nothing, I'm just talking to my dead wife.' Then I'll rattle the teeth at them by way of explanation. It'll be awesome." And here I would ghoulishly mime rattling her teeth-necklace in my ear with a wide grin. "Rattle rattle rattle!" I'd whisper.

"That is so great," she'd say, looking appalled.

I'm a lucky man.

Confess | Skot | 14 Aug, 2006 |

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Comments

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Comment number: 007899   Posted by: on August 15, 2006 07:46 AM from IP: 151.151.73.164

o.k. so that is lame... WTF, Skot? What is with this "HTTP 500 internal error", which forced me to resubmit my comment, thus duplicating it and consequently making me look like a dumbass...

Comment number: 007901   Posted by: matt on August 15, 2006 07:51 AM from IP: 151.151.73.164

I totally thought that whole thing with knocking-out-your-dead-wife's-teeth-with-a-hammer thing was going someplace else entirely.

Comment number: 007902   Posted by: i, squub on August 15, 2006 09:57 AM from IP: 216.207.65.58

I feel dirty now and somewhat disturbed.

I think you owe your wife more flowers. I don't care how many you've been giving her already. You owe her more.

Comment number: 007903   Posted by: masukomi on August 15, 2006 11:41 AM from IP: 155.212.201.226

You mean there are people who DON'T think about Arabs being murdered when they're having sex?! Huh... go figure. Must be one of those po-tay-toe/po-tah-toe kind of things.

Comment number: 007904   Posted by: on August 15, 2006 05:22 PM from IP: 66.235.58.7

Hi Skot.

I've read your blog for a couple of years now and I'm about to turn your site into something you never dreamed it might be, a portal to a self-help consultation.

See, I need to talk to your wife. Your antics are fucking hilarious and give me great delight. As I continue to read them though, I've noticed, quite alarmingly, their resemblance to my own boyfriend's, who, among other things, threatens to greet me one day with his pubic hair dyed bright orange and a clown face painted on his dick and often implores me in his own Cletus-like voice to "touch him where he pees".

I take most of them in stride (partly because I've been conditioned past the point of no return, but also because they're really fucking funny), but there are definitely times when I get all wistful at another romantic opportunity getting taken to the chainsaw cleaners. This is not to say that I don't appreciate that he's not a vacuous bag of drippy-ass Hallmark phrases, because it's one of the things I love about him, but sometimes acknowledging and experiencing the trade-off is a bitch.

I don't actually have to talk to your wife, but it would please this reader to know that she gets the word that she is fully appreciated by some completely random freak on the internet, because there is nothing more fulfilling than that!

Thanks,
L

Comment number: 007908   Posted by: laura on August 18, 2006 09:18 AM from IP: 69.251.228.189

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