There sure are a lot of men on this planit...
But you're The Only One for me, dammit.
Today is my husband's birthday. The above poem is for him. It's a card. Do you love it? Thanks.
I hope Hallmark doesn't go plagiarizing my work. (I wrote him a mushy gooshey one too but that one is PRIVATE. This one is PUBLIC.)
Because it is my husband's birthday I have decided to put myself in his shoes for a change. Men's shoes are rarely flattering. I avoid them usually. Not today.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HONEY!!!!" I shouted into the phone at 8am this morning. "I LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH! I'M SO LUCKY YOU'RE MY MAN!!"
We exchanged words and Loves and verbal cuddles.
Then he said,
"So I was lookin for That Guy at the gym today. Me and Mike were trying to figure out who he is. When I see him I'm going to chuck 45 lbs plates at his head like frisbees..."
In case you missed it, Some Dude hit on me on Saturday. I haven't given it much thought since. My man has though. He wants to KILL Some Dude. Four days later he STILL has fantasies of dismembering The Guy.
"I'm going to start asking my buddies who were there that day to tell me who he is..."
"Honey, you are really obsessing about this. Who cares who he is? I probably wouldn't even recognize him if I saw him again. He was nobody. Please don't start asking around. I'll be so embarrassed."
I could tell he was frustrated when we got off the phone.
So I put myself in his shoes.
This is a rare occasion. Savor it. It may never happen again...
*ahem*
If Some Chick hit on my man in such a blatant manner I'D FREAKING HUNT THE WHORE DOWN AND TEAR HER LIMB FROM LIMB!
Yup. I'M GETTIN ALL RILED JUST THINKIN' ABOUT HER!!! HOW DARE SHE!!! I HAVE EARNED HIM FAIR AND SQUARE!!!!
I'd find her at her place of work.
I'd find at her Stripper Pole and END THAT SHOW!
I'd be all like,
"HEY! WHORE OF ALL THE EARTH, WHY YOU TALKIN' TO MY MAN?!"
As soon as she opened her slutty mouth to speak I'd grab her by the throat and pull her extensions out one by one.
I'd bite her eye.
I'd scalp her with my fingernails.
I'd slap her face real hard several times.
I'd pop her fake boobs with a fork. POP! they would say... as they deflated slowly... or quickly... I don't know how that would go exactly. But she'd be sans boobs. BOOBLESS! Flat as the day she was born.
So... I suppose I can't fault my man too much for being upset and a bit jealous and totally possessive.
I belong to that guy I married. I am HIS. He is MINE. That's how we roll.
I'd be offended now if he DIDN'T get all crazy in the head when Dudes hit on me.
When we are 98 years old and an 88 year old Dude smiles at me from across the Bingo table, I fully expect Mr. Pistol to knock is damn dentures out.
So here's my poem once again for the Love of my life...
There sure are a lot of men on this planit...
But you're The Only One for me, dammit.
Happy Birthday, Baby.
