You don’t help me with the laundry!
“You don’t help me put the laundry away!” This is the exact quote my wife said to me last night as my head was about to hit the pillow. Not quite the pillow talk I had always dreamed about when I was masturbating in the shower as a kid in highschool. As I remember it, I had always envisioned my wife telling me how big and tasty my wiener looked.
That was then, and this is now. We talk about how I need to put the laundry away before she gets home from work. And, when am I going to finish painting the kids room. Did the Sistine Chapel get painted over the course of a couple weekends? Does Don Corleone put laundry away? Hell no. That’s what his wife was for. He needed to save his energy to murder his enemies. In a similar way, not the murdering part, I too have to save my energy…for sex and then eating. Not necessarily in that order, but you get the point. Oh how I miss those college days of never putting my laundry away. Of course, I never had to, my clothing was never washed. I didn’t have a wife back then. But I always had underwear. Even if they did smell like a rhino’s apple sack after a journey across a swamp in Georgia. (By the way, I know the rhino is not native to this land.)
