Speaking of Food....

My recent trip to St. Augustine, and some stomach issues, caused me enough frustration to write my wife a note--

Dearest Wife:
I will have you know dear lady, that I just committed mortal and unforgiveable sin--In fact, I am driving in the HOV lane to hell as I type-- I just went into a Barbecue joint and ordered a salad--

Thats right.

A "gay, un-masculine I gotta leave the toilet seat down to pee" salad.....

Let me paint you a picture of the humiliation I feel. Our waitress Mary looked at me as if I were gay when I ordered my salad. I placed my order with my head held low, almost in tears.

Actually, the entire barbecue joint turned deathly silent when I ordered the salad. Other patrons began to whisper and point at me as I were the exhibit at Ripleys Believe it or not--Alvin and Jay--completely unaware of what i was going to order, damn near fainted, and as soon as the immediate shock wore off there bar stools created sparks as they scraped across the floor --just like in the old cowboy movies when the bad guy came in the bar.

Has this what my life has come to? Used to be, back in the day, a little irregularity would be compensated by a day of binge drinking without eating any food. Now, my lower GI, in complete rebellion against me, has dictated to me--amidst the unwelcome chiming in of you, Mrs Fisher, Miss Smart Ass, that I need to eat right. By my math, eating right is not only going to make me gay but also have salad breath.

At this moment I have but one option. I have taken out my "man card" and surrendered it to proper authority.

Generations of my Ancestors dating back to the American Revolution are rolling over in their graves because of my sin at the barbecue joint.

I am a desperate man.

I need to reach down where my gonads are supposed to be and go eat my weight in pulled pork-thereby throwing caution and my lower half mile of entrails to the wind--both my consious and my lord know this. But for now, in a sincere effort to do right, I am being a gay salad boy and It is kicking my ass.

Patiently awaiting any words of encouragment for my plight, I remain, steadfast and most

Sincerely,

Your Husband

PS-please leave the toilet seat down.

HER REPLY.....

My loving Husband,

Farbeit for me to encourage you to lead a more healthy (not gay) lifestyle so we can live out our golden years together.

With that said, if sucking liquified barbecue through a straw or having a Fried chicken enema because of the paralysis caused by the massive stroke you WILL have (not to mention the colostomy bag that will be tied to your wheelchair because your colon has completely shut down AND because they had to cut off your gout infested feet) is your idea of "heterosexual", then sign me up for the "Lesbians for a Longer Life" club.

For better or worse does not mean that I will have to carry around a spit rag in my purse to wipe the drool off your chin while wheeling your lethargic rear end into the nursing home dining room to have them put your feeding tube full of green jello.

Yes, I did say nursing home.

Because I WILL take every last dime of YOUR money to make sure you are taken care of by SOMEONE ELSE while I walk around with my oxygen tank sucking down Vodka Tonics and turning on healthy, old, rich men .

Your Dearest Wife

PSS The toilet seat is always down since you are now prone to urinating your pants.

BTW i have a coupon for Depends.

It is her World---I merely live in it.