If any of you laugh, you die. Now, since we’ve gotten that out of the way, here’s what just happened to me.
A bit of information that will help–my wife and I are always having mock-arguments over who’s more “butch”, and I always end it with the always-amusing line “I am. Now get your ass in the kitchen and bake me a pie!” Thanks goes to Cartman for that, of course.
So today, I’m making a completely carefree trip to our laundry room, which resides in the back of our apartment. The wife was busy cleaning our bedroom, which is on the other side of the laundry room wall. I expected my time in the laundry room to be joyous; a time of soft, clean sheets, the smell of fabric softener hanging in the air while small birds chirped cheerfully outside the window.
::cue the dread-filled opening of “Black Sabbath” here::
As I was shifting a pile of clothing from the top of the dryer to the washer, an ominous feeling came over me. Bells began tolling, and the fingers of terror began to creep up my spine. Ever so slowly, I turned my head and gazed at the top of the dryer. There sat a dragon-like beast with evil, glowing eyes, a long, slithering tail, and four, stumpy clawed feet. The monster looked at me hungrily, by all means intent on making me his dinner. I gazed at him coolly, taking his measure. I then did what any self-respecting dyke would do.
I let a scream that broke windows miles way and ran at a speed that the finest racehorse would envy. Bursting into our bedroom, I found my wife, wide-eyed, wondering what the racket was about. Shaking, I pointed in the general direction of the beast and managed to utter “L-L-Lizard.” She then did what any understanding, compassionate spouse would do.
She sighed and said “Is that all?” Tossing a pillow at me, she strode nonchalantly into the laundry room to slay the enormous nightmare of a monster. Summoning my courage, I perched myself on the sofa and curled into a fetal position. She, rolling her eyes, returned to the living room with the beast harnessed between her fingers.
“Look” said she “it’s a salamander! It’s pretty.”
My wife then took it outdoors and released it, where I’m sure it has gone on to mutilate children, consume entire villages, and wreak it’s horror and wrath upon innocent humans.
Point being? When the shit hits the fan, my wife is a dragon-slayer. I’m the one you’ll find on top of the desk, crying like a bitch and attempting to climb the walls to escape the crushing jaws of the behemoth she has affectionately nicknamed “Sally”.
I cannot live with this shame.
