Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Marrying a hot chick should have inherent perks.

See on a scale of 1-10, if you factor in the charm, raw genius, and Adonis-like physique, I’m only about a 12.

But unfortunately, this makes my wife roughly a 19-22.

-Mathematically this equates being married to a big pain in the ass according to science.

See, a 19-22 such as my wife should regard a lowly 12 as pretty mediocre, right? I should be the jealous one. Sure I suppose it’s remotely possible a bunch of rogue, drunken supermodels might somehow not notice I’m married, taser me, inject me with drugs causing a thick amnesiatic fog, and toss me -kicking and screaming- into a van with tin foil covered windows in order to tie me up and live out sick and debauched fantasies.

But would that be my fault?

I think my slacker wife and drunken perverted supermodels with tasers, drugs, tin foiled vans, and a preternatural gift for skillful knot tying should share some culpability here. I mean maybe you could overlook the wedding ring, but shouldn’t this big, throbbing vein in my forehead be a dead giveaway to my marital status too?

Well apparently not.

Whenever Terri and I go shopping, I always have to stare at the ceiling joyces and lighting fixtures lest my eyes randomly fall in the direction of anyone even vaguely female. And how do you shop like that? I once went into a WalMart for catfood, and came out with six stitches and a mulching lawn mower.

-Despite the tongue lashing I gave the manager, that light fixture is still flickering and my cat hates me.

I’ll bet the lawn looks good though.