Someday my wife is going to kill me. I know this. She knows this. And, more importantly, she knows that I know. It's an unspoken agreement that at some point in our relationship, she will have to make the regrettable, but completely necessary and justified decision to end my existence on this plane. This will occur for one of three reasons (all of which, I hear, judges are very lenient about):
How can I convince women this is sexy?
1. Mercy Killing- I'm on a fast decline. Where hair once was there is unbroken tracts of gleaming scalp. I am slowly starting to look like the kid from Powder, except in my ears where a Gremlin-like flurry of hair has started to appear. I groan when I sit down. I grasp for things to help pull me up (furniture, small children, whatever). One can only imagine what state of decline I'll be in 10 years or 15. Hopefully, my dear wife doesn't let me live long enough to find out.
2. Temporary Insanity- Her insanity, not mine. But it will be me who drives her there. You can only walk in on your seemingly grown husband wearing nothing but a soiled pair of boxer shorts building a fort with a pile of Legos in the bedroom so many times. This, I'm told, is not how grown up people behave. Eventually, she'll reach a place where the idea of finding her husband looking at clown porn would be preferable to the regular type of juvenile shenanigans she frequently discovers. Someday, she's bound to snap.
What? It's a thing.
3. Whatever defense my wife opts for, I would like the judge and jury to know that she has my full support and cooperation. Quite frankly, I'm surprised it hasn't happened already and, in a way, I judge her for it.
So, my darling, when you are ready to take that murder-plunge, my only hope is that you will do it with my artistic sensitivity and flair in mind. Like these people. I want to die exactly like these people.
- Death by Cleavage- Donna Marie Lange has huge knockers. She must. Because she used those enlarged fun bags to motorboat her boyfriend to death after a fight in their trailer. Because of course they live in a trailer. The news stories on this case I've found don't outright state it, but I'm sure the mortician had a helluva time wiping the smile off her boyfriend's face.
- Death by Coochie- My wife hates it when I refer to a woman's special garden as a coochie. Or a special garden. (You'll be able to read about the rest of my favorite euphemisms in the court documents. There's a lot of them.) But I would never refer to her area as a poisoned swamp. Which is exactly what Sao Jose do Rio Preto of Brazil was faced with. Aside from having a name that sounds like a bottle of hot sauce, Sao was also a lousy husband. At least I assume he was. He must've been some kind of terrible person to warrant his wife poisoning her bearded clam to ensure a painful death for her husband the next time he went in for a taste of sideway sloppy joe.
- Death by Xbox- I'll bet you thought this last method was going to involve another lady part. Believe me, it wasn't for lack of searching, but as it turns out, ladies only have so many parts that can be honed into lethal weapons.
I'm not a big gamer because my mental maturity is arrested at age 9, not 14. But I still like the idea of getting hammered to death by an Xbox while the theme song from Mario plays in the background. I wish I could cite a single news article for this one, but it's happened far more times than I'm comfortable with. I mean they sell that thing at Toys R' Us, for Pete's sake. At any rate what this method lacks in terms of pink parts, it more than makes up for it with animation and quirkiness.
Mind you, this is not a hard and fast list, honey. Feel free to mix it up. Combine some of them. Add in your own flair. Hell, bring a friend. Make it fun for you.
Read Jamie's soon to be posthumous new book Bud the Crud: http://www.amazon.com/Crud-Vampire-Werewolf-Wars-Jamie-Wasserman/dp/1938758196/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1378316898&sr=8-1&keywords=bud+the+crud