by Roger White
So I saw something on Facebook the other day posted by a friend of a Facebook friend’s mother, who is the friend of a friend-in-law’s friend, and it made sense, so I “liked” it even though this friend of a friend-in-law’s friend isn’t really that friendly to me at all. In fact, he’s a bit of a jerk. Anyway, the post went something like this: “In my house, when the wife’s bra comes off, that means it’s the end of the day.”
Wow. That’s one of those statements that is so right on the money that you thought it was always out there but it took someone to verbalize it for you to realize the profundity. Kind of like how when you first heard the song “Yesterday” by The Beatles, it instantly sounded as if it had always been there, since time immemorial. Those occasions are singular and exceptional. When Paul McCartney reached up into the ether and pulled down the notes and lyrics to “Yesterday,” he was delving into that rarified eternal stream of thought that few have access to yet all mankind knows it’s been tapped into when they hear it. You can just picture cave men and cave women sitting around the tribal fire nibbling at the last remnants of roasted yak meat, and they’re softly singing:
“Yester-ugh…
All my ugh-ugh seemed so far away,
Now it looks as ugh they’re ugh to stay…
Oh, I bel-ugh in yester-ugh…”
Or something. You get the picture. Well, it’s the same in my mind with this guy’s epiphany regarding his wife’s intimate apparel. I’ve been cohabitating with female types since I was born—first with a mom and two older sisters, and now with a wife and two daughter units—and I’ve known almost instinctively since I was a toddler dodging discarded support garments that bra removal means, as far as a woman is concerned, the day is officially over and it’s time to kick back.
Now, I can’t claim to know just exactly what goes on inside the female cranium, but, like I said, I’ve been around this species my whole born days, so I have a bit of a notion. Ya know, like how a ranch hand who has been around horses his whole life knows pretty much what a horse is thinking. Hmm, maybe I should rephrase.
You see, I had to wear a tie at a couple of jobs in my sordid past, and I absolutely hated it. Even the clip-ons. It was so restraining, so binding, so…corporate. My thinking has always been that ties are a man’s bra. They’re just there for show and to keep your neck from sagging.
Well, like I mentioned earlier, I can’t claim to precisely comprehend the complex workings of the fairer brain, and, indeed, this was confirmed when I related recently my theorem about men’s neckwear being the equivalent of women’s chestwear. Upon hearing this hypothesis, my dear spouse choked on her mist green chai tea latte and gave me one of those looks like I have cat poo on my head.
So, recently, being the quasi-curious home scientist that I am, I put my theorem to the test. That’s right, I did something I haven’t done since I was eleven and was going through a very short, confusing phase that involved my mom’s sparkly lip gloss and listening to a lot of Wayne Newton. I put on a bra.
I must say, at first it felt reassuringly snug and comforting—like a hug from an old friend. An old, peculiar and sometimes inappropriate friend. Yet after walking around the house and stretching a bit, I began to get it. To be blunt: Bras suck. They pinch, they poke, and this one in particular did nothing for me. It revealed way too much side/chest flab, and I won’t even begin to go into the horrifying man-cleavage difficulty.
So. To wifey and all you female species types out there, I get it. And ties are not a man’s bra. Only a bra could be as uncomfortable and restraining as a bra. So I say to you ladies, “Danke schoen, darlings, danke schoen…”
Roger White is a, uh, a human living in Austin, with his recently bewildered spouse, two horror-struck daughters, an obese and gas-addled dachshund, and a cat recovering from Epstein-Barr Syndrome. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com. Or don’t.
Ya Wanted More Fernie, Ya Got More Fernie
24 Aprby Roger White
Well, gang, it seems that the literary stylings of my old compadre Dr. Archie Ferndoodle have truly struck a chord with many of you. Since the appearance of Sir Archie’s poetic elucidations in a recent episode of “This Old Mouse,” the Oldblouse
offices have been inundated with a letter heaping praise on the feckless Fernman and further beseeching the master muse for more obtuse observations. Well, who am I to deny my faithful the mental goosefeather that so tickles their collective ulnas?
You surely know this by now, but the Doodle Doctor insists I preface his epistles with the following: The esteemed Dr. Ferndoodle holds an associate’s degree in postmodern comparative limerick studies from the University of Southern Panama’s Correspon — oh, to hell with it. If you really want to view the good doctor’s curriculum vitalis, write me, and I’ll send you a mimeographed copy.
Sir Archie, in his own peculiar patois, has taken several classic tunes from the songbook of popular culture and rendered them as his own, with his edgy, pointy-like lyrics so pertinent to today’s roiling rambunctious rutabaga world.
Disclaimer: The Spouseman—and the newspaper/periodical/bathroom wall compendium in which this diatribe appears—doesn’t necessarily agree with the views and opinions of Sir Archie. He is his own creature, and we bear no responsibility or legal burden for his verbal effluence.
Taking that into account, I give you Archie’s first offering, called “Healthcare for Millennials.” Keep in mind, you have to know the popular tune to latch these lyrics onto or none of this makes any sense whateverso. But if you’ve made it this far, sense is something you know is a rare commodity in this time/space.
Healthcare for Millennials
(to the tune of “Teach Your Children Well” by Crosby, Still, Nash, and Young)
(verse 1)
“You under twenty-one,
Will be under the gun to pay for healthcare,
By the time you reach my age,
(chorus)
“So keep your bodies well,
’Cause you’ll pay like hell to see the surgeon,
Think hard about having kids,
You’ll be on the skids, better stay a virgin.”
“No use in asking why, it’ll cost less to simply die,
Better yet you just might tryyyyyyy….
To move to Canada.”
Huzzah, Archster, well done. For his second favoring, the Fernman has rendered a little ditty he calls “Little Trumpy,” regarding the precarious existence of PBS and shows such as “Sesame Street” under the current regime:
Little Trumpy
(to the tune of Sesame Street’s “Rubber Ducky” )
(verse 1)
“Little Trumpy, you’re the dude
Who sent PBS down the tubes,
Because of Trumpy we are all royally screwed.”
(verse 2)
“Oscar lost the lease to his can,
Elmo’s turning tricks in Japan,
Little Trumpy, I’m not very fond of you.”
(chorus/bridge)
“Oh, every day when I see Big Bird in the gutter,
What a motherlubber.”
(verse 3)
“Cookie Monster OD’d on crack,
Miss Piggy’s somewhere dealing blackjack,
Oh, Little Trumpy, life’s really the pits now,
Oh, Little Trumpy, me and Bert called it quits, and how,
Little Trumpy, it looks like I’m shackin’ with you.”
Bray-vo, bray-vo. And lastly, Ferndude gives us his take on the ramifications of oilman Rex Tillerson taking over as top guy at the US State Department:
Rex Will Survive
(to the tune of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive”)
“At first I was afraid, I was petrified,
Kept thinkin’ my ties to Russian oil I could never hide,
Friends said, Rex, why take this job, it’s a massive pay cut,
To be Trump’s head of state, you must be some kind of nut,”
“But here I am, from Wichita Falls,
Make way for ol’ Tillerson, ’cause I got some big ol’ b*lls,
I’ll go easy on the Reds,
But North Koreans I will kill,
I got a tiger in my tank, my Exxon stock’s worth 100 mill,”
“Yes, Putin and I, we will survive,
Just don’t look too darn deep in KGB archives,
We’ve got such friendly ties, so don’t you be surprised,
When Moscow becomes home to the next Exxon franchise,
Hey, hey!”
Sir Archie Ferndoodle’s classics include “Oh, Staff Sergeant, My Staff Sergeant!,” “Why Is the Man Always from Nantucket?,” and perhaps his greatest epic, “The Squirrels Stopped Talking to Me Today,” Roger White is a Ferndoodle protégé or else owes him big time. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.
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