To my darling wife:
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for being born, and breathing, and taking up space on this overcrowded planet. I’m sorry for eating food that could go to the starving Ethiopian babies in New Orleans and Biafra. I’m truly sorry, and I humbly repent.
I’m sorry for staying at all night with the guys, whoring, and drinking, and farting, and scratching my nuts - even though I don’t do any of those things. I’m sorry for not helping around the house - even though I do. I’m sorry for not maintaining our home - even though I’m the one who cuts more than an acre of lawn, vacuums the pool, trims the hedges, cares for the roses, cleans the gutters, maintains the hot tub, brushes the dogs, feeds the animals, and provides routine maintenence on the automobiles (including getting the oil changed every 5,000 miles or 3 months, whichever comes first, your mileage may vary, professional drive on a closed course, objects in mirror are closer than they appear). I’m sorry for spending money like it was water - even though, like my parents, I’d could pinch a penny until Lincoln screamed for Booth’s bullet to put him out of his misery). I’m sorry for never paying you the slightest bit of attention - even though I tell you regularly that I love you, send you flowers with sweet notes for no reason, slip love notes into your lunch (which I make for you in the morning so that you don’t have to get up as early), and generally dote on you no end. I’m sorry that I’m an incosiderate lover - despite the fact that by any stretch of anyone’s imagination we have a scortching, passionate, mind-blowing, leave-me-with-a-stupid-look-that-orgasm-was-so-initense sex life. I’m more sorry than you can ever know that I spend untold hours on the computer, on the golf course, plopped in front of the TV watching “Fear Factor,” playing “Bonestorm X - Return of the Cyber Snot,” and generally be a piece of shit that is better scraped off your shoe than married to. I’m sorry for all my many, many, very many, impossible to count, must number in the bazillion, Einstein couldn’t come up with a calculation to measure how many, whole lot of shortcomings. Really.
I don’t know how you stand it. You are a paragon of rectitude, decorum, and have the patience of Job’s Uncle Mort. Why you didn’t leave me, murder me in my sleep, or, like Al Green’s jealous lover, throw boiling grits on me long ago I’ll never fathom. Clearly, I’ve wronged you.
My darling, my most wonderful, my joy, my reason for living - forgive me.
But sweetheart, light of my life, reason for my living I am most truly sorry for that crime which evidently can never be excused. A crime for which I was rightfully shamed, demonized, excoriated, lashed, drawn-quartered-and-served-with-a-side-dish-of-warm-butter. A crime that sets me apart from mortal men - a crime so heinous that I will go down in history as the most vile scum, the most …really bad person. A lapse in the peace of the Universe so incredibly loathsome that people will compare me to Hitler, Pol Pot, Bush the Younger (now that’s saying something), Stalin, Dahmer, and Keanu Reeves. A crime for which there simply is no excuse and for which I am most deserving of any horror that can befall a mortal man -
I’m sorry that I forgot to call you last night when I left the gym and got home 10 minutes later than you anticipated.