Letter From Milo: Baby's Dirty Little Secrets

My wife pissed me off the other day. I mean she really pissed me off. She called me lazy, inattentive, anti-social, hygiene-challenged and a drunkard. I want to go on record as saying that I am not lazy. I just spend a lot of time thinking.

Anyway, the more I thought about what she said, the angrier I became. I couldn't let it go. I had to get back at her. I'd show the bitch who's who and what's what around here. The problem was that I couldn't think of a proper revenge. Then, one sleepless night, it came to me. And it was perfect.

When I first started doing this blog, my wife said, "I don't care what you write about, just don't write about our sex life."

Well, honey, your worst fears are about to be realized. I'm going to expose you as the wanton, salacious woman you truly are. When I get done with this posting you'll be too embarrassed to ever show your face in public again. Your friends and relatives will ostracize you. I'm going into such lurid detail that your deepest, darkest, most illicit secrets will become public knowledge. I'll show you.

I'll never forget this one time she.... Wait! Wait, let me get something else off my chest first. A few weeks ago I wrote a piece about Tommy Granger, the poor teenage boy who was hung in 1642, by our Pilgrim Fathers, for having carnal knowledge of a sheep. I thought that it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, hanging some kid for committing an offense that the average Indiana farmboy commits on a regular basis. I asked my readers to help me restore Tommy's reputation by starting a letter writing campaign to our legislators. To date, I have not received one letter in support of clearing Tommy's name. Needless to say, I am deeply disappointed.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, getting ready to reveal my wife's inner tart. There was this one time when she had a little too much to drink and she.... Hold it, I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine and savor it while I'm giving my wife her proper comeuppance. Be right back.

Damn! I had to open a new bottle. I didn't realize I drank so much last night. Good thing I gave up drinking hard liquor. I have to admit I once did have a little problem with booze, but not anymore. I'm a reformed man, for the most part, although I do miss the old rip and roar. Moderation was never one of my virtues. I remember waking up one morning with a foggy head and a pain in my backside. When I checked it out I discovered a large bruise on my ass.

I couldn't remember the previous evening very clearly, so I asked my wife, "Honey, did we have a disagreement last night?"

"Why?"

"I've got this bruise on my ass and was just wondering if you - heh, heh - hit me with a skillet or something."

"No, you asshole, you got drunk and fell down the basement stairs."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you bounced twice before rolling to a stop."

"Darn."

Let me get back to business here. The time has come to reap my well-deserved revenge. Once this blog becomes a matter of public record, my wife will never, ever mess with me again. Okay, here's the real dirt. She used to own this pair of high heels and one time.... Shit, I've got to answer the phone. Be right back.

That was Benny Jay. For those who don't know, Benny is a Bulls fan. Fan may be the wrong word. Zealot would be a more honest description. Tonight is game three of the Bulls-Celtics first round playoff series. Benny is a nervous wreck. He see gloom and doom everywhere. He worries about Derrick Rose's inexperience, Ben Gordon's hot and cold streaks, and John Salmons's injury. Benny remembers the Bulls' glory days when Michael Jordan was playing and the Bulls were unbeatable. I remember those days, too. I try to reassure Benny, telling him that even if the Bulls lose, they are on the right track. We've got a great young player, who one day, barring injury, will lead us back to the Promised Land of raised banners and Grant Park celebrations. Benny seems mollified, but I make a note to contact his wife and make sure she keeps Benny away from sharp objects, power tools and the third rail on the Brown Line, if the Bulls lose.

Finally I have to cut Benny off. I tell him I'm working on something vitally important right now and we agree to talk later.

Enough's enough. It's time to put the final nail in the coffin, show my wife the price she has to pay for messing with me. I swear, when this blog is posted, the Earth will shift under her feet. She may decide to enter a convent and renounce all worldly pleasure. Ha, ha - it'll serve her right.

Wait! The phone's ringing again. Be right back.

That was Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this blog site. He just told me to wrap it up, that I've used up my allotted number of words for this posting. It doesn't pay to argue with Big Mike. Rumor has it that he pistol-whipped the last blogger who exceeded his word limit. Okay, no problem. I'll fix my wife's wagon at another time. Stay tuned.

Letter From Milo: Marriage Counseling

This is our post for Thursday, February 26, 2009; pay no attention to the default date shown above - Eds.

Every few years my Lovely Wife becomes dissatisfied with the state of our marriage. Of course, it's all my fault. I don't pay enough attention to her. I'm uncommunicative. I drink and smoke too much. My hygiene is not what it should be. My friends are beastly. I'm inconsiderate to her friends. I snore. I say and do stupid things. I fart at inappropriate times. I'm a hopeless loser whose place in hell is pretty much guaranteed.

Okay, so I'm not perfect. I'll be the first to admit that I have a couple of minor faults. I mean, who the hell gets through this life without developing a couple of character flaws. Even the great ones have chinks in their armor. Winston Churchill was a drunkard. Barack Obama smokes. Michael Jordan is a degenerate gambler. Bill Clinton is a liar. JFK was a womanizer. Louis Armstrong was a pothead. Catherine the Great was overly fond of horseflesh. The list goes on and on.

When I point these facts out to my wife she just laughs at me.

"While you're at it, why don't you compare yourself to Jesus and Mother Teresa."

"Sweetheart, you're missing the point."

"There's no point, you're just trying to bullshit me."

"Angel, be reasonable. All I'm saying..."

"I know exactly what you're saying and I'm not falling for it."

"Honey..."

"Don't honey me. We have serious problems in our marriage and we need to do something about them."

For the next few days after this conversation there is a distinct chill in our household air. Silences, cold shoulders, slamming doors, angry muttering, ugly looks, sleeping on the couch -- my lovely wife throws her entire arsenal at me. And that's just the beginning. I know what's coming. I'm a scarred veteran of the marital wars. She's getting ready to drop the big one on me.

"Milo, I made an appointment with a marriage counselor."

"Shit, not again."

"If you love me you'll cooperate."

"Can I love you and not cooperate?"

"That's not an option."

"Shit."

In nearly three decades of marriage we've been to three different marriage counselors. The one thing they all had in common was that they were expensive, charging an hourly rate that would have made Johnny Cochran rewrite his business plan.

Our first counselor was a very attractive woman who we quit seeing when she began going through an ugly divorce, leaving her husband for a much wealthier man. We gave up on the second counselor when my wife got the impression that she was too sympathetic toward me. The third counselor lasted the longest. She was a young woman who seemed to have a good grasp on the marital condition. She understood that marriage is an unnatural state, a con game foisted on humanity by a pitiless, vengeful God. We stopped seeing her when she and her musician boyfriend moved to California.

It recently occurred to me that there are plenty of other poor souls being dragged off to marriage counselors by unappreciative wives. It also occurred to me that I owe it to my fellow married men to help them out in their times of trouble and woe. Therefore, I have compiled a few tips, suggestions, and defensive stratagems that will help them survive even the most savage counseling session.

1. Agree with everything your wife says. If she tells the marriage counselor that she caught you cooking and eating one of the neighbors, just say, "I can see how that would upset you, dear, and I'll try to do better in the future."
   
2. Never admit to affairs, gambling debts, drug habits, or that minor indiscretion with Sarah the Slut at last year's New Year's Eve party.
   
3. In the rare case that you actually like your marriage counselor, immediately begin complaining about her. The more you complain, the more your wife will think the counselor is doing a fine job.
   
4. Try to moderate your bad habits for a couple weeks at the onset of counseling. Bring your wife flowers and chocolate. If you can stand it, try to watch Oprah and the Lifetime Channel together, at least twice a week.
   
5. Avoid lesbian marriage counselors at all costs. They won't succumb to your manly charm, are notoriously hard-headed and nearly impossible to bribe.

I'm not saying that these five tips will turn your counseling into a walk in the park. That's impossible. Marriage counseling, by it's very nature, is a brutal, take-no-prisoners assault on your manhood. It's designed to break you down and reshape you into the wimpy, neutered wuss that your wife has always wanted for a husband. What I am saying is that by following these rules, you might, just might, come out of counseling with your manhood and dignity intact. Ignore them at your own peril.

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