My wife hosted her second “lia Sophia” jewelry party last night. Just because I accidentally embarrassed her at the last one — by mounting, on the kitchen wall, a custom “fathead” of her in curlers and a revitalizing mask — she’d given me strict orders to stay away from the shindig. “It’s for women only, anyway,” she added. “And you know what they say, Richard: ‘Out of sight, out of mind!’”
As I’ve said before, I hate taking orders, including (if not especially) from my wife. Though agreeing to quarantine myself in the upstairs media room for the evening, I determined to rebel. Sophia had neglected to forbid company of my own, so I invited a few guys over to play Madden football. Sure, I displayed the “tit for tat” attitude of a four-year-old, but I figured: Screw your women’s party! The guys and I’ll have a grand old time playing Madden and scarfing down chips and beer.
I invited Ron, Jimmy and Jimmy’s friend, Matt. When the doorbell rang and the quantity of penises in the house increased threefold, Sophia threw a conniption. But I smugly responded to her complaint: “Don’t get your panties in a twist! You and the other hens have the entire downstairs to yourselves. We’ll be locked in the media room for the night, out of sight and out of mind, just like you demanded.” With that, I escorted the guys upstairs, wearing my self-satisfied smile and thinking: look who has the last laugh now!
Whoever had the last laugh, by the end of the night he certainly wasn’t me. I quickly learned that I’d failed to stock the media room with a bottle opener. Since I couldn’t show my face in the kitchen, Jimmy volunteered to brave the estrogen front and retrieve the implement.
From then on, matters proceeded like the plot from a B horror movie, where a killer picks off the cast one by one. Jimmy hadn’t returned within several minutes, so Matt went to discover his whereabouts. When another five minutes passed without sight of either, Ron vowed to “bring ’em back, dead or alive.” That was the last I saw of Ron.
Stubbornly, I refused to chase after them. I didn’t see the guys again until my wife’s party ended, when the three turncoats sheepishly stuck their heads into the media room to apologize and say goodbye. Incredibly, Sophia seemed peeved that they’d crashed her soiree. I felt neither sympathy nor remorse though. As I pointed out: “What’re you complaining about? Ron and Jimmy both bought a bunch of jewelry for their wives, and one of your girlfriends now has a date for next weekend with Matt! In the meantime, while my friends helped make your party a rousing success, I sat upstairs all night playing with myself and staring forlornly at the six cold bottles of beer I couldn’t open!”