What Do You Say to a Woman With Two Black Eyes?

Domestic battery is no joking matter. I mean, every three minutes a woman is beaten. You'd think she'd either shut up for once, or just leave the house. (lackluster rim shot/cymbal crash)

I remember twenty years ago or so, seeing the now classic Nolte/Murphy comedy 48 Hours. In one early scene, Nolte greets a couple of fellow cops, asking one of them, "How's the wife?"

"Mean as a snake," he replies.

As a thirteen year-old, this kind of humor escapes you, but seeing the film again years later, I found this remark not only hilarious, but at times I might even relate to it.

Like virtually every couple, Mrs. P and I have our occasional spats (this blog entry, for instance, might start another one). To even things up around the household, I gave Mrs. P, among other things, cutlery for Christmas. Recently, my friends Brother James, Skip and I discussed the pros and pons of such a gift:

Brother James I'll never give my wife knives. She actually pulled a knife on me once when she was pissed.
Prego Sh*t. I had no idea she had such a temper.
Brother James Dude, you have no idea.
Prego The worse I've been assaulted with was a flying loaf of French bread.

Skip Actually, if you're going to get stabbed with a kitchen knife, you're better off getting stabbed by a good one. It'd give you a clean cut, which is easier to close up.
Prego That's true. That would be easier to suture. Or if things turn out for the worse, it might make for a quicker death.

Seriously, despite being struck in the forehead with the aforementioned crusty projectile, I have never once considered striking the missus, regardless of how psychotic she might get. We also have the murder-suicide pact in place (if she considers it, she does the suicide part first).

We pretty much have our routine:

1. She flips out for something I deem insignificant and begins a tirarde.
   
2. I calmly tell her I don't want to talk about it.
3. This gets her angrier and more irrational.
4. I start twirling my finger around my right ear in the Internationally recognized "Coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs" sign, leaving the room.
   
5. Mrs. P goes off the deep end and follows me from room to room.
6. I begin to seethe a bit and a couple "Will you shut-the-f*ck-up?" begin to emerge.
7. Mrs. P storms off to cry it out.
8. I go walk the dog or something.
9. One of us apologizes, we may or may not have "make-up" sex... and
   
10. Rinse and repeat every three or four months.

Mrs. P is very lucky I've got the "On/Off" switch permanently set to "Off." You know the one. The one that gets switched "on" right before the police arrive to cart off the 38 year old male, wearing a tank top and a surly yet embarrassed expression on his mug. One of her relatives, however, found herself to be not as fortunate.

I can picture the scene this past Christmas Eve (a useless "holiday" that seems to matter more to the ladies than the gents, regardless of religious denomination). The National Football League must have hired the world's biggest misogynist sh*thead to do the schedule this year, because I'm sure as ferret sh*t that this wasn't an isolated incident.

The Buffalo Bills get handed yet another loss this season, as the stadium empties out 80,000 + inebriated and annoyed fans into households in the Greater Buffalo region... Among them, my wife's relative's husband.

Our protagonist Frank arrives home in the Hamlet of Ebenezer:

Frank hic. hic. hic.... (opens door)
Judy (Voice of Dino Flintstone) Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....
Frank Groan.... hic. hic. hic....
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... Christmas... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... My parents... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... F*cking Bills game... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih..... the presents... Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....

Frank Gesnarfff... hic. hic. hic.... God dammnit... grishmasss tomorrow with the hic. hic. hic....
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....

Frank Shut the f*ck up...
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....!
Frank SHUT THE (hic) UP!
Judy Ya-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih-pih.....!!!!
Frank GwaaaaaaHHHH!


(Flurry of slaps, punches and kicks ensue)
Outro: Tammy Wynette's "Stand By Your Man"

From what I know about the aftermath, it resulted in handcuffs, restraining orders and a probable parting of ways. It's sad, really. I can picture the cops arriving at the scene.

Officer Smith: Hey Jack. How's the wife?
Officer Jones: Mean as a snake.

Of course, Mrs. P wants to know how I feel about the whole scenario, to which I've resorted to giving a stock response - courtesy of comedian Chris Rock:



"I ain't sayin' I agree... but I understand...."


(Crusty loaf of Italian bread sails over my head).

Seriously, I realize alcohol is an anti-inhibitor - those of you who've bedded a 300 lb. member of the opposite sex can attest to that (cough... my brother). We've all made some dubiouos choices. I was sober when I met Mrs. P, but was three hockey beers to the wind when I proposed. Let's hope somebody gave Frank an "On/Off" switch for Christmas and taught him how to set it permanently to "off"...

You'll have bad times And he'll have good times
Doing things that you don't understand
But if you love him you'll forgive him
Even though he's hard to understand...

Holiday Four Play!

For some reason, Christmas ups the ante for songwriters. Yeah, hits come and go, but if you write yourself a kick-ass Christmas ditty, you might find yourself immortalized along with Leroy Anderson, Tepper & Brodsky, and that *sshole who wrote the "Two Front Teeth" song.

Even churchy music never sounded so good. As a kid, I always looked forward to the time when they busted out the holiday hymnal.

Godless as I am, I still enjoy holiday music today. I'm not a big fan of the goofy, tongue-in-cheek ilk, such as "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus". For some reason they always find some windy, extroverted Broadway-type kid to belt it out as if his fledgling career depended on it. I do, however, enjoy sh*t like Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack and choral arrangements like the "Carol of the Bells."

Then, there's the off-the-beaten-path classics. For instance, the works of Captain Sensible, Ze Malibu Kids, the Descendents and the Pogues.

"Who?" you ask. Well, I won't go into biographical details. I'll just let the music speak for itself.

From the maudlin to the forlorn... the farcical to the cynical, here's a selection you'll not likely hear on KRAP-FM.

Enjoy.

My Christmas Was in June mp3 Ze Malibu Kids
My Christmas Was in June mp3 "glossy" Beu Sisters version
One Christmas Catalogue mp3 Captain Sensible
Fairytale of New York mp3 The Pogues w/Kirsty MacColl
Christmas Vacation mp3 Descendents

Back to the Drawing Board

In keeping with the 'spirit' of the holidays, I thought I'd dig up this old chestnut.

It actually started as a Christmas card I sent a while back, but it launched a 'career.'

I had a brief stint as an editorial cartoonist with a local rag. I had to shelve it when I got a little too busy with my college courses. Now that I'm done I'm hoping I can get back in the saddle somehow in 2007.

Here's a link to my personal favourite.

Dig.

p

O-Dog, the Fletchmonster and Arborcide

The boys and I took a walk to the Lexington General Store around the corner, to haul home a Douglas Fir for the holiday season. Part of the charm of living where we live is that we can take a short stroll with the Radio Flyer wagon and haul back anything from a couple of pizzas to a snowboard or a chainsaw. In this case, all we needed was the tree and a half-gallon of milk.


After we got the dead tree home, O-Dog had to leave for yet another birthday party, leaving the Fletchmonster and I to "hang like gentlemen" at home. He took it a bit better than he did last week, and spent the evening entertaining me on the piano while I stood the tree up and put the lights on.


The scope and breadth of the average two year-old's experiences were glaringly evident, as the Fletchmonster announced "This one's called, "I Gotta Go Poopee and Pee-Pee," before he starts pounding on the ivories.

Once the tree and lights were set up, we waited for the O-Dog to come home to help with the ornaments, lets we cause a meltdown of the "I wanted to help with the ornaments!" persuasion. Basically, neither of the boys showed any interest, once the Batman & Robin ornaments were in place, leaving Mrs. P and I to do the bulk of the work.



You'll notice I took care to ensure that my favourite ornament, Oscar the Grouch, was placed prominently at approximate eye level. I do base my life on his teachings, you know.

My Christmas Was in June

I stopped into the local Starbucks today, on the way to work. I seldom carry cash, and it's the only neighborhood coffee shop that doesn't have the $3-5 minimum purchase requirement for debit card purchases.

I'm very conscious of music, so whenever I walk into a place it's usually the first thing that registers. It sounded eerily like the kind of 19th Century European churcy music that makes caucasoids feel warm and fuzzy in December.

"Is this Christmas music?" I ask the Plain Jane standing in queue in front of me.
"I think so," she responds, motioning for me to notice all the snowmen and Crapmas knickety-knackety sh*t for sale. "It's a little early for me."

"Me too," I replied.

The line breezed through pretty quicky and I was up to bat.

"Large coffee, please."

The clerk turns around to pour the beverage and returns to the counter. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No thank you," I say as I hand over my charge card.

He runs the card through, turns around and says, "Venti Christmas blend. $1.90. Happy holidays."

The fist thing that struck me was that he actually corrected me and my 'order' with the "venti" thing, but it took me an extra few seconds to process the f*cking "Christmas" remark.

I stood perplexed, looking at the bright red paper cup, the snowflakey sleeve and my credit card in my hand, feeling like I just got a reach-around from Tiny Tim's mother. Then my eyes started darting around the place, waiting for Santa or Frosty or some other Christmas a**hole to come by to add some holiday flavour to this nightmare.

I left in a daze, trying to ascertain whether the three weeks after election day had been cancelled without my notice. I chuckled to myself as I made my way to the exit as another patron smiled at me and said, "I know."



And god chafe us, everyone.