I don’t know why I derive such great satisfaction when my friends screw up in a Richard-like fashion. But I do. Take this afternoon for instance. One of my closest friends from up north, Ava Fox, called to relate an incident from this morning.
Ava and her husband Danny have been married for almost twenty years now; yet Danny pursues Ava for sex as if they’re newlyweds. To an outsider, such continuing amorousness after so long a tenure together would seem cause for celebration. But Ava remains unimpressed because Danny executes his advances with all the subtlety and romanticism of a bull in a pasture. As she puts it: “I might as well be a warm slab of beef with a hole in the middle for all the fun I get out of it!”
Monday morning, Ava and Danny shipped their two kids off for a week-long camping experience. Danny, adopting the old “when the cat’s away the mice will play” mentality, views the absence of children as the perfect opportunity for non-stop sexual abandonment with his wife. In contrast, his Mrs. looks at a week without kids as a chance to enjoy some rare peace and quiet, as well as an opportunity to catch up on the million things she normally can’t accomplish with children around.
The couple’s competing outlooks clashed significantly last night when Danny sought to cap off a long day of work and errands in the sack, with his wife and a can of whipped cream. Unfortunately for him, the last thing his exhausted, headache-ridden spouse wanted then was “somebody poking me,” as she put it. She unsympathetically told him to “take your whipped cream and go whack off in the bathroom, if you’re so desperate for sex.” Danny replied with a few choice words, the gist of which centered on his view that a married guy shouldn’t have to masturbate. In the end neither party went to bed happy.
Ava slept like the dead and woke up refreshed yet still angry at her husband’s attitude. Even so, she also felt somewhat guilty at failing to fulfill her wifely duties. She wasn’t exactly in the mood, but she nonetheless decided to find her husband and put an end to his complaining.
She located Danny in the kitchen. More precisely, she located his lower body protruding from the cabinet beneath the sink. His head and upper torso were crammed under the pipes, hidden from view, as he attempted to stem a slow leak which had begun the day before.
Without ceremony, Ava positioned herself across from the sink, dropped her pajama bottoms to the floor and announced: “Alright, I’m ready. You want to do me or not?”
That’s when she learned her husband had called in a professional to fix their pipes. Said plumber, not Danny, slid out from under the cabinet, got an eye-opening look at Ava’s “invitation” and told her: “Sure, but I’ll still have to charge you by the hour.”