You Belittle Us All

Quiet now, George. The whiney nasal voice, the croaking complaining, all of it. You embarrass us both, and I won't stand for it anymore.

So what if you have to go to the bathroom and can't? Nobody cares. There—harsh, but high time someone said it. You're at best a spineless jellyfish, George, carrying on about your inconveniences while real suffering abounds in the world. At worst, you're a squirming parasite on the rest of the earth. Don't blame me—you brought it on yourself.

Like the entire town wants to hear about how you can't make water. We all have our crosses to bear, George, and you're no different. Instead of carrying on about how it hurts in your privates and how you fall asleep on the john, why don't you try putting everything in perspective? The War on Terror, the violence in the Middle East, that pregnant lady who was killed by her husband. Did you bother to think about that George? Not being able to drain the vein doesn't sound so bad, does it? You've got it pretty damn easy.

If nothing else, think of me. Me, you're loving wife of however many years. Is it 30 or 50? They blend together with you as a husband, George. You're not so much loving spouse as an unattractive ornament I keep forgetting to get rid of. Years of devoted service to you, for whatever insane reason, and you can't even give me the basic consideration of how ridiculous we look, we, the two of us as a pair, when you carry on about your inability to tinkle.

And if I have to hear one more time about how public restrooms make you queasy, George, well, send for the undertaker, that's all I can say. I put up with so much bullhockey over the years already, that's where I draw the line. It's all I can stands, I can't stands no more, as the amusing cartoon character says. Was it Popeye? He's a little like you, George—bald, squinty, poor diction, bizarre huge forearms from God only knows what kind of hand exercises. The comparison ends there, George, for Popeye is at least amusing while you irritate me to the hairs on my head, and Popeye at least served his country valiantly in the Navy, while no one will claim your work at Denny's has done anyone any good.

Do I hate you, George? Indeed hate is a strong word, but let's not hastily dismiss it. Let's say your appeal diminishes more each year and leave it at that. And yes, I would even say every little utterance about your lazy prostate devalues you even more. I would not push a button and wipe you out in entirety, but the day when I could push such a button is not completely inconceivable. Getting closer each day.

The worst thing about you, George, and I hate to be limited to one thing, but I would say it's the disservice you do to the rest of the world. Even those who do not hate you have to admit they wouldn't be sad if you vanished into thin air, like David Copperfield, only to not return. It's not that you mar the world in an ugly way, like a scar, but you certainly don't add anything to the melting pot. You are much like a tambourine sound in a recording most people barely acknowledge, and certainly wouldn't regret losing if the soundman turned the sound out on it. I can mathematically prove the world would be a better place without you, using fractals and long division.

Still, with all that said, happy anniversary. You did remember, didn't you? Remember, you're on thin ground as it is.

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