So, you’ve chopped off your husband’s penis. Okay, maybe he was about to become your ex-husband and maybe you poisoned him and maybe you thought it would add a little somethin’ to the story if you tied him to a bed and used a ten inch knife to castrate him… Obviously if you’ve planned this far ahead, you know exactly what to tell the cops after you calmly tell the 911 operator that yeah, there’s a bit of a medical emergency in your apartment.
What, everyone will wonder, were your words of brilliance that comprised the reasoning for such a brutal deed? Obviously: “He deserved it.”
That, ladies and gents, is the kind of woman who lives in the same lovely county as I do. This crazy bitch CUT OFF HER HUSBAND’S PENIS. WITH A KNIFE.
Oh, but it gets better… because really, once you’ve dismembered the same man you promised to love and cherish til death (or unfortunate litigation) do us part, why not go a little crazy?
She… God, it hurts to even write it… she… she put… his penis… down…the garbage disposal. Ack…the noise that must have made!?!
Loraina Bobbit, wherever that nut-case is, must be writhing with jealousy of this lady who dared to so blatantly one up her. And I, in the comfort of my room (after having sent this story to almost everyone I know), am writhing with some sort of morbid curiosity at what has to go so fucking wrong in your life that this seems like even a slightly acceptable idea.
Upon telling D about it, she pointed out that really it’s the only way to make sure your ex doesn’t sleep with anyone else… but really, after they imprison you or find you a cozy, padded cell, you won’t be doing the deed with anyone either. Unless Freddy Kruger is looking for a lady friend.
The Libra asked me where I was last night, trying to insinuate that I am capable of such outbursts. (For the record: I am not. I might get a little needy, or throw a tantrum from time to time, but I will leave you with your penis).
My coworker simply said, “Please, please don’t tell me you think this was cool.”
And now that the story has spread like wild fire and men the world over are investing in pad-locked protection for their members, you’ve got to be concerned that shit like this even goes on on a Monday night. Personally, I’m concerned that shit like this goes on in what seems to be a high-end, affluent, relatively normal community. Have we, as a culture, moved so far past the predictable, I’m-burning-all-your-stuff-because-you-suck acts, that we succumb to physically marring someone? Revoking their man-card in the most literal (and disturbing) sense?
You know this bitch was thinking that she wanted to cause some irreprable damage. She was sending a message. I pray to the heavens I never have to understand that message, but hot damn! Was she calm through the whole ordeal? “Oh, you need that? Hm… well, look, yeah, there’s still bits and pieces left! We’ll just sew it back on. There! Good as new. You’re fine honey, stop whining, you’re just making it bleed worse.”
It’s a penis. They NEED those… that’s where they store all their hopes and dreams and aspirations for future and self worth. It would be like robbing me of my wit. (ha. ha).
Sigh. There’s a man out there, in critical condition now, without a penis. And a woman, in jail, probably getting high-fives from her fellow basket-cases.
And there’s me… morbidly relieved that there are people out there so out of their trees that they make me look not only normal, but awesome, and wondering what the motherfuck anyone could do to actually deserve getting Lorana Bobbitted.
Gentlemen, hide your penises. She’s coming for them.
I had to write this. It was unfair not to… Although I highly doubt there will be as many “Yayuh!”‘s to this post as there were to my “Things That Are Better Single” one. Bloggers tend to not be in relationships- or they do- and don’t read my blog because
they feel bad for me I make them jealous.
However, you can never tell me I didn’t explain BOTH sides of the story. Because I am about to write a list of the best things about… abooouuuttt…. (sorry, almost threw up in my mouth a little bit)… about… beinginarelationship. There. I said it.
1. Your period. Congratulations! You’re not pregnant! It’s a relief, and a very heavy, baby-sized weight has been lifted from your shoulders (ovaries?). Now, on with your life for another 24 days until you start methodically counting the dates on your phone’s calendar again trying to compute if your late. Mazel Tov!
2. Valentine’s Day. Birthdays. Holidays that involve cards. Now, my mom is good about this, and I am a regular receiver of cards. But there’s something pretty fantastic about a card filled with sloppy boy writing, brimming with marginally thoughtful things that he probably spent 3 hours
avoiding thinking up. Awwwwww. “He thinks I’m really Cool!”
3. Getting Waxed. Unlike me, if you are in a relationship, you spend $50 a month for lovely miss Sameera while chatting about God knows what with the intention of showing off your barbie-look-alike vajayjay. If you are more in my boat, you visit Sameera monthly out of the sheer fact that you have developed a very painful, very unfeministic habit. And she’s nice. (Did I just admit to being friends with my waxer?!)
4. Gaining Weight. Haha! He’s stuck with you anyway. SUCKER!
5. Birth Control. You know what they call birth control for celibate/single folk? Vitamins, because they’re basically the same thing now. A daily nuisance you take because you hear they help with your skin.
6. Regular sex. Well, that is, if you’re still having it or still enjoying it at this point.
7. Movies. That shit is expensive nowadays, and at least if you’ve got a significant other they’ll pay for you to go see You’re A Pedophile For Loving Justin Beiber So Much and stuff your face with Raisinettes. I generally don’t see movies unless I have a boyfriend… Meaning I saw every movie that ever came out in 2007 and 2008… and NOT ONE in 2009. Which sucks because word on the street is that Paranormal Activity was exactly as abominable as I thought it would be.
8. Having A Phone. Because when you have a boyfriend it actually rings and shit.
9. When People Ask Who You’re Dating ‘These Days.’ By ‘people’ I mean members of your extended family, and by ‘who you’re dating’ I mean who will take you off their hands so they don’t need to take care of you into your 40’s. Because that’s all my family members are looking for in my boyfriends… PLEASE DON’T MAKE US PAY FOR HER FOREVER. (My drinking is expensive).
10. Having Trust/Daddy Issues. Finally, someone to punish for your father’s mistakes! And for a second there I was worried I’d have to get over them in a healthy manner instead of projecting them onto some poor, unassuming man. Whew!
Okay, so this quickly turned into Reasons Not To Date ME, but whatever… I was totally kidding. I mean my phone rings all the time… Swear.
Remember that one Valentine’s Day where you were going to stay home, drink a glass of wine and catch up on work, then maybe watch a movie and get some desperately needed rest?
No? That’s right! You got drunk and went to the bars for a completely predictable lonely-hearts club party and got wasted before getting NO sleep and going to work hungover and TORE. UP. Bravo.
This is the conversation I had with myself yesterday morning while hazily trying to remember where my keys, lipgloss, and pride were.
Anyway, that was my Valentine’s Day…. And just for good measure, I fell both in and out of love in the course of half an hour and now have a stalker.
I was engrossed in conversation with easily the most attractive guy I’ve seen in a long time and I was silently singing the praises of the Valentine’s Gods for finally cutting me some romantic slack. Yeah, he was totally rocking the grungy, artsy thing but he owned his own company. Because I had maybe one too many glasses of wine by this point, I just reveled in my good luck, and didn’t consider that a guy like that realistically doesn’t exist. But no, I was busy being enamored with my good fortune. It was the best of both worlds. An artsy capitalist. A tall artsy capitalist. A HOT, tall artsy capitalist.
But… then… under his beanie (yes, beanie), I thought… wait… did I just… is that… do you have GREEN hair? “Yeah, I’m super pissed it was supposed to be blue.” Oh… Well. No, that’s not better.
“I write music too, the tattoo on my arm is my own lyrics actually.”
… Because OF COURSE they are.
And after about 45 minutes and 9 red flags later (not even counting the botched Marge Simpson hair), I realized I had not seen him with any friends. At all. Fuck. Did I just give my number to a guy who came to the bars ALONE on VALENTINE’S DAY?
Yes. Yes I did. And now he won’t stop texting me about how “sad” he is.
And I had hoped to make out with a stranger, but didn’t. (This was, strangely enough, disputed) I have some sort of inherent cock-block tendency though that reared its ugly head that evening. I generally do not do well with the sort of meet-a-stranger-let-em-touch you kind of game. I’m awkward, and I need to validate every physical encounter I have. In other words: if I make out with you, I expect us to date. If you see me naked, we’re practically facebook official. In essence I was silently screaming in my head “WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?” at everyone in the bar that evening. Well, not everyone. The guy with green hair already did love me.
…Because OF COURSE I would manage to attract only certifiably insane loners.