“I’m going to the store, honey. You need anything?” I shouted from the doorway.
“Grape juice . . . and pick me up a trash magazine,” was the feminine response from the other room.
She used to have a subscription to People, but I pay the bills and let it expire. They just pile up in the bathroom anyway. As punishment, I undergo the humiliating experience of buying People, The Star, and occasionally the National Enquirer at the grocery store checkout.
The ultimate humiliation is buying the double-thick sexiest man alive edition of People. I made sure to buy beer and beef jerky so the clerk wouldn’t think me gay. No eye contact was made. “Debit. No cash.” and I was out of there. I opened the beef jerky in the parking lot. I felt so dirty.
I tossed the rag . . . er . . . mag on the kitchen counter. My wife was giddy. I said, “I’m really anxious to see how People got a photo of me for this edition.”
She replied, “Every year they pass you over. Their loss. My gain.” She thumbed the magazine, tossed it down, grabbed a grape juice, and continued, “You’re better looking than half the guys in there and you pay my bills. That is so sexy.”
That and the fact I have insurance. Yeah, benefits make women moist. Screw you Matt Damon. Did you have sex on the kitchen floor with your high school sweetheart today? Didn’t think so. So what if I didn’t make the list . . . again? I’m still dead sexy and the dogs are really weirded out.