Anonymous - The Perfect Husband

I suffered a head injury as a kid when my parents got into a car accident. After that, I was never the same. Mama says God made me handsome as compensation for making me dumb, but grandpa says my parents fucked up my head when they didn’t put on my seatbelt.

Because my dick is ridiculously long, my wife has always fantasized about catching me masturbating, so on our 25 th Wedding Anniversary I decided to give her a show. But it hit some snags. First I got yelled at. Stuff like, “Dad! Not during dinner!” or “First Red Lobster, now Olive Garden? You know I hate Bennigans!”

You know, shit like that.

I tried to blame all the ruckus on the adorable waitress without success — thank God grandma insisted on coming along. The more Alzheimer’s takes her, the more useful she becomes. If it weren’t for her wicked right hook, I wouldn’t avoid her so much.

My show sputtered early because the people at the other tables demanded I pull my drawers up. Even the town stripper suggested I stop traumatizing her first grade class. I wouldn’t have fallen so much if my oldest son didn’t keep shaking the table I was dancing on. I nearly lost my dignity when I lost my balance and crashed into the young black couple next to us.

Someone hit me, so I struck back — how was I to know my bling got stuck in her blouse? Nice fucking cleavage, though. Except the bruise I left. I do regret exploding her fake tit over his lasagna. That was totally my bad. I haven’t been that embarrassed since my parents last visited.

But I forgot Ol’ Miss Sphincterhead now managed the place. The guys called her that because — and I’m reading from notes now — 1) she seemed to meet the definition of an anatomical structure that maintains constriction of a body orifice for the entrance or release of liquids; 2) she had the mouth of a marine mammal blowhole; and 3) because I couldn’t pronounce her last name. Some Nazi name like Schadenfreude. I don’t know. I didn’t take Prussian in school. All I know is that she derived so much pleasure from the misfortune of others that she should have had her own reality show.

You’d think she’d cut me some slack because I let her pee on me in high school, but noooooo, she angrily kicked me out of the lady’s bathroom the day she quit being a teacher.

In front of my family, that tiny old white lady called me so many terrible things that I called her “mom” out of pure reflex. That’s when it got bad because, really, no one that ugly should be a mother. If it wasn’t for liquor she’d never get laid. Her kids turned out so bad that the town’s missing person posters drained all sympathy for their plight. Turned out they skipped town of their own volition. If they didn’t become famous on that teenage mom show, we never would have remembered they existed.

But Ol’ Sphincterhead wouldn’t be forgotten. No matter how many times kids write over her name on her mailbox. No, she was as much a part of this town as HPV.

“Get my salad tongs away from that penis,” she screamed at my adult children like they was still kids. She normally had the complexion of a tomato, so I’m just guessing she was angry. In any case, it was so hard to care.

Now, in my defense, I had to remove my pants and underwear because I laughed so hard I peed myself. You can’t just walk around in soiled clothing. My mama taught me that much. And no, I don’t know how my undies flew into the kitchen or what burned the place down — although the forensic report cited the alcohol content of my urine.

Things wouldn’t have been so humiliating if they didn’t show me on the tee-vee news — damn you, social media! It’s so hard to deny something on Facebook. My kids weren’t going to hash tag me out of this mess.

Naturally, the police had to blame someone, yet they refused to arrest my wife, no matter how much I pointed. My beautiful Mexican wife not only pretended she didn’t know me, she pretended she didn’t know English. If she were white I bet I could have totally kicked her ass.

“Yo. Yo no. Yo no se. Yo no se nada. Yo no se nada, y la unica cosa que se es que no se nada, pinche gringo.”

Old Roscoe, the sheriff, tried out his high school Spanish. I thought my wife was gonna run for the border. Good thing women can’t figure out north-south-east-west or I may have lost her. She yelled at me — knowing I love being handcuffed naked — and called me everything in the book:

“Puto. Joto. Marigon. Guevon. Mamon. Cavron.”

I don’t know what book that’s from, but I’ve always wanted to buy it. But she saved the best for last. She spit at me and yelled, “Chinga a tu madre and a todos que te parecen a ti!”

Which means, “fuck you and everyone like you.”

It’s a doozy, the granddaddy of Mexican slang. I didn’t believe it was so bad until I tried it on every Mexican-looking person I met. Who knew nuns could be so violent? I don’t know how she shoved that pole so far up my ass. I’ve tried many times, but I just can’t figure it out.

I’ve known Manny for years — he’s arrested me more than anyone. But I never knew he understood Mexican until he drew his gun on me and said, “Drop the pole, pull up your pants, and back away from me.” I knew he wouldn’t shoot me — not after all the trouble he got into the last time.

I swear this town’s run out of fun people. It wasn’t like that when I was a kid and voted Least Likely to Reach Adulthood. Those were the days; when men were men because being unmanly meant everyone assumed they were gay.

They didn’t have the drugs then that they have now, so they experimented on me with whatever they could find in the barn. Half the shit that I survived is now legal with a prescription. Kids then weren’t diagnosed as “autistic” or “Aspergers” or “pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified” so they called me a retarded fuck up.

And not in a good way.

“The head injury made me dumb, not retarded, moron!” I’d yell back at my tormentors. Good thing my brain had trouble registering pain cuz I got the shit kicked out of me until I got big enough to kick back.

To this day I hit my childhood bullies on sight — the few who haven’t moved away. I love the terrified look on their faces when I surprise them in the street. I once caught Jimmy and Johnny at the same time and was surprised the fat one got away by tripping the bald one.

“I’m just doing to them what they did to me,” I’d explain to the sheriff. “Yet you never arrested them, no matter how much they peed on me!”

“They only pooped on you once!” he argued. “And they didn’t make you eat it.” Roscoe didn’t like me getting upset. I’m the tallest guy in town and his Taser just makes me madder. He stopped tasing me after I flipped his police car over.

My grand pappy found me so amusing that he left me everything he had. Including grandma. His brothers didn’t survive the war so, after several generations, he owned a piece of just about everything in the county. My dad, the preacher, never spoke to him again. He said he loved everyone, like Jesus instructed, but I never saw a man smile less than my father.

People then called me “IRS,” which I liked much better than Dumbshit, cuz I get a cut of practically every transaction around these parts. Hey, it’s not my fault I’m majority owner of most of the big stores and restaurants. It’s not like I can be blamed for their continued existence. Maybe if they let me manage them they wouldn’t thrive so much.

I’d only been married three kids by then — I’m not good tracking years — when the old feller had a stroke. My wife and I moved in with him cuz he said he’d rather die than live in our shit house. I’m a logger. Cutting trees for a living keeps me strong, so I could move him whenever he wanted. Which was all the damn time.