My wife and I have a pretty good marriage, but it seems like every week we find something new to argue about.
Last week it was all about how much peeing in the shower is acceptable. I believe up to a quart of urine a day is fine, whereas my wife thinks there should be no urinating in the shower at all.
One night the argument escalated to a point at which I said, “You know what? This marriage is too important to me to let this come between us. If it will ease the tension around here, I’m willing to compromise.”
Since then, I have been peeing no more than a pint of urine per day into the shower.
This week, the argument has been about appropriate uses of our measuring cups.
It never ends.
The next time an overbearing neighbor hounds you to keep your lawn mowed, get out and mow your lawn wearing nothing but a thong.
That will shut him up for a while.
It’s been said that there is no greater pain than having your heart broken.
I bet that getting hit in the balls with a sledgehammer while someone paper-cuts your eyeball is right up there, though.
There is nothing more painful than a fart that refuses to come out. And the pain isn’t just physical; it’s emotional.
As a lover of flatulence, I liken it to a rebellious teenage son. You devote so much of your life, so much of your time, and so much of your love to him, and, yet, he continually causes you pain.
At some point, he may even hurt you enough that you question your unconditional love for him. But deep inside you, even the places that hurt worst know that the love remains, so you persevere.
Perseverance can be difficult, especially during those bleakest times, but it is almost always rewarded. For one day, he will recognize the error of his ways and realize, with full appreciation, how much love he has been shown.
And on that day, joy will shoot out of your butthole.
I am the boss of my body.
When my stomach says, “We’re full,” I continue eating. When my bladder says, “It’s time to wake up,” I say, “Keep squeezing — I’m staying in bed for another hour.” And when my intestines tell me never to eat food that hot again, I immediately order more.
Yes, I am the boss of my body. I call the shots.
But when the employees revolt, it’s a big ole mess.
I could be wrong, but I’d bet that if you surveyed couples with a history of intimacy, they would tell you that the word “weenie” doesn’t come up very often in dirty talk.