By W. R. Jones
Ok, this is an image that has no relationship to the anecdote of this post. If you feel you need an illustration to match the story, do it yourself. Email it to me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I will include it here. You might want to seriously consider this opportunity as you know, as well as I, with near certainty, this entire blog will someday be hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with notorized copies in the Louvre and Hermitage. This is your chance for a slice of immorality immortality.
Recently, while using some creative reconcilliation techniques, which included new ways of addition and subtraction, to get the checkbook to edge near the black, I recalled a morning by a pool with a group of housewifes.
They were bitching about their husbands. The whole morning I never heard one of them say a positive word in regards to their men. One by one they rattled off the traits they found irritating. “My husband makes me balance our checkbook to the penny.” I replied, “Well, you should balance to the penny, otherwise you are doing something wrong and this may mean you are way off.” Another, “My husband expects me to check the oil every time I get gas.” Me, “This makes sense, running out of oil can damage the car.” “My, idiot husband wants me to press his damn shirts.” Me, “That sounds normal, do you want him to go to work wrinkled?”
On and on it went; everytime one would say something negative I would point out the benefits of that particular trait. Finally, one woman jumped up and screamed at me, “GOD DAMN IT, I BET YOU ARE A GOD DAMNED ENGINEER TOO!”
Touché. So this is the reason I can’t get a date. Virtually every woman hates my personality traits. Since that day I’ve been making the transition from engineer to painter. I’m not there yet but I’m making progress. My checkbook doesn’t balance and my oil light just came on.