I put a half-full cup of soda from Extra Mile in the fridge and went out to run some errands. When I got back home, the soda was gone.
“What happened to my soda?” I asked.
“I cleaned out the refrigerator,” my wife said.
The optimist sees the glass as half full. The pessimist sees the glass as half empty and throws it out, even if it belongs to someone else . . .
I saw these husband and wife profile photos on a Facebook friend list:
The photo on the left is the husband’s profile photo. He looks like a more effeminate, French-looking version of the Dos Equis guy.
The photo on the right is the wife’s profile photo.
You’ll notice it’s the same photo, but she’s taken a page from the Stalin revisionist history playbook and removed hubby from the photo.
And note that she didn’t just crop him out, which would be the easy thing to do. She went to the trouble of firing up some photo editing software, erasing him, and recreating her bustline against the new background.
She’s just not that into you!
I went to a 50th wedding anniversary mass today. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead at such a thing but in this case the husband and wife also happen to be my parents so not only was I there, I was there bright and early to hand out programs.
Fifty years! How do a man and a woman celebrate with each other such longevity and perseverance?
Honey, I want to say something to you tonight that I’ve never said before, although I’ve had it in my heart for many, many years.
Three little words . . .
. . . let’s try anal . . .
The dog and I are having a great time this morning playing tug-of-war. My wife is ironing clothes.
“What time is it?” she asks.
“It’s 7:22. Are you trying to tell me to stop playing around and go to work?”
“No, I’m trying to time it so I can stop ironing and make Casey’s breakfast before he has to go to school.”
“Apology accepted.”
My wife decided to highlight her own hair, which costs five dollars if you do it yourself versus 50 dollars at the hair salon.
Later I noticed, in the master bathroom, a large black carpet stain in front of her sink.
“That can be taken care of,” she said.
I said, “I can’t help noticing that someone, probably you, has already tried to get that stain out without much success.”
“I don’t have the right cleaning product,” she said. “And it’s time to get the carpet cleaned anyway. Carpet cleaners can get that out easily. Easily. Been there, done that.”
“So let’s review,” I said. “We saved 45 dollars on the hair coloring but we’re going to end up spending a thousand to replace the carpet . . .”
The joys of parents are secret, and so are their griefs and fears.
Happy Mothers Day to my wife, who shares my secrets . . .
Hulk Hogan on his estranged wife and her new boyfriend, “some shaggy-haired pool boy 30 years her junior”:
“You live half a mile from the 20,000-square-foot home you can’t go to anymore, you’re driving through downtown Clearwater [Florida] and see a 19-year-old boy driving your Escalade, and you know that a 19-year-old boy is sleeping in your bed, with your wife …. I totally understand O.J. I get it.”
Look for the new reality show, “O.J. and Hulk: BFFs & Cellmates 4 Life,” coming soon to a closed-circuit prison camera near you.
My friend G.L. Hoffman sent this to me:
I just want to add that I knocked my wife up on the first try, in case any of my neighbors are reading this . . .
My wife runs an insurance agency. She handles all the customer service calls herself and as a result, a) she gets to know her customers very well; and b) she hears a lot of bad news.
Today she sent me this email:
One of my best clients just passed away yesterday. He is 65 years old and had a heart attack. One of these days I’d like to hear good news sometimes.
You and Casey are my good news.
Probably I don’t say enough good things about her . . .
I just got an email from a co-worker with a wedding picture attached . . .
Thanks for the picture, I wrote back. I’ve never seen a happier-looking bride, except my wife of course.
She replied, That’s for sure…I really couldn’t of been happier for that moment…
What I didn’t say: You’ll never be that young again. You’ll never be that beautiful again. You’ll never be that happy again . . .
I had an office visit with my doctor, who is also my wife’s doctor . . .
We always spend a few minutes talking about my wife, who, to use the medical terminology, is “really crazy.”
“She is really crazy,” the doctor says. “I don’t know how you keep your sanity. You always seem so calm. I bow to you.” And she stretches both arms out and actually bows.
I’m glad someone is able to get a laugh out of it.
Then she refills my Paxil prescription so I can make it through the next six months . . .
SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — A Tri-State woman is in critical condition Wednesday after police say her husband shot her while they were having sex.
After you’ve been married for a while, you have to try new things in the bedroom to keep it interesting . . .
After Thanksgiving dinner, the hostess asked everyone to please stack their dishes and bring them into the kitchen.
I started to stand up — not to stack dishes because my wife had already picked up my dishes — but just to stretch my legs, when my dad, who was sitting next to me, put his hand on my arm and whispered, “Don’t get up. That’s woman’s work.”
I said, “I’m just getting up to stretch.”
“Don’t move,” he said.
My dad, like a lot of men his age, has old school views on gender roles.
Earlier in the evening, my mom was saying she’d read that women control 60 percent of the wealth in America.
“That’s all right,” my dad said, “because we control the women.”
Compare that to one of my nephews, who says things like “I’m nobody’s patsy,” then turns to his wife and says, “Isn’t that right, honey?”
I get a call at work from my wife, who says, “I logged on to the credit union web site and a message popped up and said ‘Happy Birthday!’”
“Your birthday’s not till tomorrow.”
“And I got a Happy Birthday email from Newport Lexus. Wasn’t that nice?”
“It sure was.”
“I hope people close to me don’t forget about it . . .”
My son asks how I’m voting on Proposition 8, so I tell him, “I’m not sure I really care that much one way or the other. The amazing thing to me is that same-sex couples actually want to get married. If I hadn’t been allowed to get married, I could have avoided a lot of problems.
“On the other hand, if we get rid of the ‘one man, one woman’ requirement, I’m planning to turn the house into a polygamy compound with Lucy Liu and Scarlett Johanssen as my new wives.
“Bad choices,” he says.
“Who would you pick?”
“Jessica Biel.”
“Okay, we’ll get her too.”
On Nov. 4, my fellow Californians and I will vote on Proposition 8, an initiative to ban same-sex marriages, which were made legal by a state Supreme Court ruling in May.
I know a guy — let’s call him Trog . . . Trog seems to have emerged from the mists of time untouched by human evolution.
Not surprisingly, Trog supports Proposition 8 and he feels strongly enough about it that if you stop by his office, you’ll see a fair amount of Yes on 8 campaign material.
Now I have to say that the idea of two people of the same sex getting married and making out with each other — provided they’re female and hot — does far less to tarnish my view on the sanctity of marriage than does the thought of some woman allowing this mouth-breathing ape to clamber on top of her and deposit his seed.
The fact that same-sex couples even want to get married is a stunning triumph of hope over experience. I honestly can’t think of a single heterosexual couple I’d describe as happily married — not one!
In fact, I’ve come to think of marriage as having very little to do with love, which I no longer believe in, and a lot to do with having someone other than yourself to blame for everything that’s wrong with your life.
To couples — gay or otherwise — I say don’t confuse “I love you” with “I want to marry you.”
There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.
We took Lightning to the Huntington Dog Beach this morning . . .
As we were parking the car, my wife asked, “Do they have bathrooms here?”
“They have portables,” I said, pointing them out.
“OK, you guys go ahead and I’ll meet you down at the beach.”
Later, when we got back to the car, I asked, “Where’s my coffee?”
“It’s all gone,” she said.
“It may be all gone now but it wasn’t all gone when I left it here.”
“I had to pee in it.”
“You peed in my coffee cup?”
“I can’t use those portables.”
“Why couldn’t you pee in your own coffee?”
“I had to make a judgment call.”
“Well . . . thanks for not setting it back and letting me drink out of it.”
You may be thinking “Nigeria Rules” now, dude, but wait till all 86 of your wives have PMS at the same time . . .
My son and I went to the Lakers game last night, a pre-season game against Utah . . .
As we were walking in, he pointed out an Asian girl with a spiky-haired Asian guy wearing an Olympics jersey and said, “That guy with the Olympic jersey pulled a hotter Asian woman than you.”
The girl was hotter than my wife is now, but not hotter than she was at that age.
“You don’t know anything,” I said. “Mom was pretty hot.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Pretty good game! The starters played more than I thought they would.
Andrew Bynum is back. He looked good!
Jerry Buss was there. He looked terrible. Thirty minutes before the game, a guy rolled him out in a wheelchair to the end of the court. It took him several minutes to hobble from there to his courtside seat. My son said he had a leg injury. I thought he was just too old.
The girl sitting next to him — his date or his great-granddaughter, I’m not sure which — looked really good.
The Laker Girls totally set the bar for whatever you call these kinds of groups — cheerleaders? Dance teams?
I realized that what’s missing from my workplace is hot girls in extremely short skirts who jump around and cheer whenever something noteworthy happens.
We check in a bug fix? Gooooo team!
Then at halftime — or “lunch” as we call it — they’d change into tight pants and belly shirts and jump around in the new outfits all afternoon.
Good times!
On the drive home, my wife called my son’s cell phone. The conversation was focused on exactly where we were and how long it would take us to get home.
“Why does she care about that?” I asked.
“She’s probably up to something and wants to make sure she stops doing it before we get there.”
