The most recent spark of interested came from N--- who was speaking with his wife on the phone. On the whole, it was incredibly uneventful and I can only assume he was talking about picking up his kids, or rather having to be picked up since the family owns one car and his wife is in possession of it. What I clung onto like a gator navigating a swamp and finding his pray hiding behind a darkened tree branch was this:
Life as a married man starts off completely fulfilling. You feel wholesome, you feel new, you are embarking on a journey. Its sort of like a trip to Florida for the weekend. You are on the plane after work, drinking whiskey, contemplating new relationships with strangers from 800 miles away. Not sure what you are going to do but you know you will drink, it will be fun, maybe weird like a finger in the ass or a chick wearing vampire teeth while your fuck. Then you do go, it is fun, your ass hurts, and your brain is numb, but its over. You have to get back on the plane an return home to your mildly monotonous job with a mediocre salary (after spending roughly 43% of your monthly income). You had the journey, now you realize you are back to reality. The journey just fucking blows, and you never have time just turn the music on, with your headphones on full blast because its rude when you are on a lifelong trip with someone else. You can no longer be selfish or even really drink.
You are now on a journey of judgement. You cant shit where you eat or eat while you shit. You cant pick up a Chad Kultgen novel and say "this is intriguing literature" without being called a masogynistic asshole. You cant call up your buds on "movie night" for a change of pace, because its insensitive. Your journey is now not really a journey at all, its a sentence. This sentence is made up of 15 life long consecutive sentences. You're prison fucked.
So as I talked to my friend about this concept of marriage we quickly fell into a bit of satirical banter. The focal point was Fantasy Football. Fantasy is something I enjoy now, and I really get into it. But Fantasy Football for the married man is like Poker Night, it is like water, or oxygen, it is needed not for enjoyment, but for survival. It acts simply as an escape from the reality path he is forced to meander down, only to find the road does not diverge. It simply curves and winds to its inevitable beginning, leaving him only to be able to say "this is my nightmare," for it is truly mine.
I told my friend that on the same night that I invite him to a poker night at my house, he should immediately delete my number and write down on a sticky note the date. This date represents the day we stop becoming friends and concurrently my social life has been taken out to the small, flower infested backyard (which I was forced to plant on a Saturday) and shoot it right in the fucking face.
After poker night organizations are established in order to keep one ounce of dignity stored for the lack thereof a social life, you fire up a riskier move - Fantasy Football. Wives must hate Fantasy Football. FF take up an incredible amount of time in a males life; drafting, setting weekly rosters, pending trades, lost waivers, injured players, sports news reading in the morning, more trades, FUCKING GAME DAY. They HATE FF with a fire-like passion. Allowing FF to enter their husbands lives is like women being gifted with a 50 Shades of Gray TV show that is on 4 days a week. They become second best and everything they do is simply a backfill priority, receiving all the unwanted traffic, or shitty time that sneaks through.
In order to get FF off the ground, the coniving, yet loving husband must send out invites for a draft. Now that he is balls deep into this "partnership," they share everything. Things that he thought was his own, including his testicles, are not. His college email that he somehow uses still as a mode of conversation - not his. His cell phone is now simply a quicker avenue for her to get in touch when he is picking up the jumbo sized tampons. His pants, he didn't pick out, so therefore not his. He literally has no known possessions, besides his hotmail email account, which is usually not good for anything other than SPAM rape, and porn registrations. He sets up a time and date for the secret FF draft, thinking that if he could at least get the league started without his wife knowing she will not ruin him and make him drop out, therefore removing his balls and shipping them to Lithuania. Package addressed to: Chantel with a note saying "these will not be needed anymore."
He sends out the email that has all the info and he states clearly "Gentlemen, please DO NOT, under any circumstances, make the mistake of RSVPing to my Gmail account, my wife knows the password and she will bring this idea down like Haiti's political structure."
- Of course one asshole friends sends him an email to his Gmail thinking that he was kidding about his request.
Two weeks later, after the beginning of the 2012 FF season, disqualifying the group form involvement, he sends a follow up email. This time it is sent from Constant Contact, a service that requires you to pay a monthly fee at a high rate in order to send private emails and manage them from a third party location:
Dear Friends and Fucking asshole suckface, slut-bitch, titty slapping JAKE,
Due to a lack of ability to follow instructions there will be no Fantasy Football this season. My wife logged into my gmail two weeks ago claiming that she needed to print off our airline tickets to West Virginia, where her third cousin is getting married....next July. She was fortunate to stumble upon Jake, who thinks his humor is as funny as his community college degree's, email, and threw a temper tantrum that rivals Rainman when he is not allowed to count the things he wants. Needless to say I am currently sleeping on the futon I rolled into the unfinished basement. Yes, the futon from college. On top of that she has hidden all of my phone chargers so I was only able to fire up this iPod touch that the 8 year old neighbor left here last week while mowing the lawn - can't believe I had to pay the shitstick 10 bucks for that. However looking back it is a 10 dollar iPod that I can slowly access internet on. Sorry for any typos, I am using an online fucking email program on a first generation Ipod touch with a scratched screen. Fuck you Jake, sorry guys.
Me
Fast forward one year.
Hey Guys,
This is a mass message. I know this is a dating site and you think this is one of those gay dudes popping off a queer message to see your dick and send it to his aunt, but its me. I'm pretty fucking jealous you guys are all on here, chicks are smoking hot. I am also sarcastically glad we have to communicate this way. Things have really taken a turn to the dark side at home and I simply cannot move forward amicably. I have upgraded since the last time we talked (11 months and 2 weeks ago) to and iPad. I bought if off the same squirly bitch neighbor who noq extorts me by charging 15 bucks to mow my 10x15 sq foot lawn. I snapped the floor boards in the deck and hid this bad boy in a plastic zip lock bag so i can use it to message you guys. This is an invite to the Fantasy Football 2013 draft (location sent later). I hope you all can make it, I chose not to add Jake on here who I hope dies of herpes to the brain. If you guys need to reach me I whipped out a Cricket mobile account with prepaid minutes. I have 37 minutes which I estimate will be the exact amount needed to field all your RSVP's and questions. George - dont get long winded and talk about how much money you made fishing last year. After the RSVPs are confirmed I plan on burning this phone and dropping it in the Long Island sound so my wifey wont ostracize me from all my friends for another full calendar year.
(The guy with no balls)
Happy wife, happy life. NO. Happy wife, dead husband.
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