Friday, January 22, 2010
Sick Leave is for Wussys
I almost killed my wife last night. I have almost killed her before, but this particular time was especially -check the signatures on the insurance forms– bad.
At work someone handed me a miracle lotion that had been touted as the cure-all for tired legs, baldness and Epstein-Barr. Somebody else chirped in that it would do the once over on skin cancer, but this was never confirmed.
The reason it was never confirmed was because Joe Bob, the man who made that claim, was pulled over in a traffic “incident” wherein the officer was inundated with a copious puff of lovely scented smoke when the window was rolled down, so Joe Bob was out for the day. And possibly for the spring. I'm glad it was he and not me that was pulled over because I have had my social security card laminated for several years and they have not sent me a new one. I'm just not doing the time for the laminating crime.
Sufficeth to say that said lotion came highly recommended. And, being the kind of husband that I am, I just had to share. People are always coming up to my wife to tell her how lucky she is to have married a guy like me. I am so sharing.
So, when my wife came home from a trying day at work I made her a glass of hot chocolate and sat her down in the living room with the remote. And then I almost killed her.
I was just trying to be a good husband, and I want that to be known. Not like the last time I almost killed her because I forgot to hold the ladder when I was just standing when I said I would stand there and hold the ladder. So I don't multi-task well. What's the surprise? I'm a guy.
Anywhoo and regardless, back to the crime scene. I took off her socks and rubbed her legs down with Joe Bobs miracle elixir. She purred and purred like... something that purrs a lot.
"Nice", she says. "Warm", she says. "Tingly", she says.
"Is there Menthol in this, honey? You know I'm allergic to menthol" she says.
Oh, no, sweetie. Not a drop. The main ingredient is some big word that I cant even say, so you're good. I keep rubbing the healing goop in.
"That's nice, honey. It's like Ben Gay on steroids. Is it supposed to heat up like this? It's smoking! Does this concern you at all? Are you sure there's no menthol? Is the couch on fire? Remember when I almost died when my mom put Vick's rub on me for a cold?"
Look for yourself, I say, tossing her the bottle. She screams and passes out. How was I to know that methysulfonylmethane was the big word equivalent of wife killer? So I drove her to the hospital and they put her on a ventilator and now she is on the short list for a skin graft.
Yes, I admit that she was inconvenienced and now she can't walk without assistance of crutches, but she wears short pants to work anyway and so the leg braces don't really get in the way like you would think.
It's always 'That Davison's wife! Can you imagine living with him for as long as she has?
She's just so lucky.