You can imagine how pleased I was when I stepped into my building’s lobby the other day and was greeted by what appeared to be The Book of Shadows sitting on the communal table by my elevator. It’s kind of a thing in this building – people leave their old crap on the table downstairs in the hope that their 1970’s guide to parenting or half-consumed jar of Nutella will go to good use, insead of where it belongs (in the trash).
Sure, the cover of the book says that it’s something benign, pleasant, even: The Standard Treasury of the World’s Greatest Music. With that being said, I’m pretty sure that given its faded, burgundy cover and spooky vibes that this book contains all of the secrets to the world’s evil and should never be opened by the weak, fleshy hand of a mortal.
We’ll put it like this: I just hope that B and I are out for a walk with Jack when some idiot finally comes along, cracks open the cover and turns my building into a portal to hell.
I’m having a hard time thinking of something more First World Vile than having your formerly impotent, elderly husband harangue you every day about bumping junk with him.
Just think: you’ve put in your requisite 40 years of schtupping. You finally think you’ll be able to enjoy NCIS in peace and go to sleep at a reasonable hour and not have to worry about breaking your brittle, osteoporitic bones in your own damn bed. Then, much to your chagrin, your liver-spotted, saggy-skinned husband comes home from the doctor one day with a prescription for daily Cialis. Suddenly, you’re dealing with an alter cocker who has the sex drive of a pubescent teenager – it’s like being married to Benjamin Button, but instead of aging into Brad Pitt, your husband is just going to get wrinklier and more pungent with the passing of time. I’m gagging just thinking about it.
Maybe I should start a non-profit to support the wives of old men who take Cialis. I think I’ll call it H.H.H.T.M.A. (Triple H TMA), which stands for Help! He’s Harder Than My Arteries!