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Posts Tagged ‘love’

A Coup de Grâce Can Score You Major Points In A Relationship

November 20, 2013 1 comment
coupdegrace

French.

The hallmark of a great man is being able to stand up and say, “Hey, I was wrong.”

Yes, I made a mistake.

How? Well, for one, I told my girlfriend that I would not kill her. Major flub.

Why would I kill my girlfriend? I wouldn’t, under normal circumstances.

Let me frame a normal day for us. I pull into her driveway, and sit in the car honking the horn (I have programmed a Pavlovian ‘sound-of-horn=come-outside-NOW’ response deep within her psyche). But wait. Pretend, for this hypothetical exercise, she doesn’t immediately come out. So I have to physically lift my body out of my car, huff all the way up her sidewalk, onto the deck, to the door. It’s never come to that, but I imagine I’d be pretty angry by that point.

We can all see where this is going, but stay with me. Next, I begin pounding on the door, yelling, ‘GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!’ I haven’t conditioned a response for that cue into her yet, but I think she would understand what I wanted her to do. I stand there, agitation escalating, but also happy with anticipation, because Pavlovian cue or not, she always knows to bring me a beer and a Snickers bar when I am at her house, no matter where on the property I happen to be located.

She still hasn’t exited her house. At this juncture, it’s apparent that she’s trying to get my goat on purpose. Poor move.

But then let’s say I peek in the window, and any one of the following scenarios has occurred:

}She was on a stool, trying to make a deposit in the Swear Jar on top of the refrigerator, slipped, grabbed the gigantic cooling device for support, and pulled the whole thing down on top of her, turning her body into a pancake.

}Her cats, ever recalcitrant, finally snapped and ate her limbs and vestigial organs.

}She was in the community pool, swam too close to that thing in the bottom, and got her guts sucked out her ass.

The point I’m trying to make is that some horrible accident has happened where she would be better off dead. Unless of course she wants to live as a no-limbed pancake that’s missing a good percentage of its digestive system.

The French refer to it as the ‘blow of mercy,’ the coup de grâce.

I would be a terrible, terrible boyfriend if I didn’t do that for her.

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Women Need To Know That They’re Not Dating A Lunatic

September 23, 2013 12 comments
lunatic

A lunatic.

Women like to feel safe, protected, secure. That’s why the other night, when me and my girl were sitting in a dark parking lot enjoying some gas station sandwiches, I gazed into her eyes, took her hand in mine, and told her, in all seriousness, “I’m not going to kill you.”

That’s the most reassuring thing you can tell your significant other. Well, one of the most reassuring things. Once, when we were sifting through garbage looking for dumpster donuts, the alley light reflected just right off a pool of a homeless man’s urine, and I couldn’t help but let her know: “Your eyes are so beautiful. There’s no way I would ever spend my nights and weekends modifying my vacuum cleaner’s motor to give it enough power to suck those gorgeous spheres right out of your head and then display them in a jar of formaldehyde on a shelf next to my bed, leaving you as an eyeless freak.”

Because, you see, most women don’t want to be tortured either. It’s important to remind them that you don’t plan on putting them through that.

I can recall another time, shortly after we were digging through that dumpster, when we went to the actual dump itself, in search of the mother lode. You see, the top layer of junk preserves any foodstuffs below quite immaculately, makin’ for good eatin’, if you’ve got a free afternoon for siftin’ and pickin’. But I digress. So there we were, having one of those romantic trash fights you see in movies. As I was about to slam an old toilet seat over her back, the curves of her body were caught in silhouette against the flames of the incinerator. “You have such an amazing body,” I said. “If I were some sort of psychopath, I would be salivating right now, thinking of how I could chop you up into little pieces, dump them off at a hog farm in Wisconsin, and be back in time for breakfast. But I’m NOT going to do that.”

For a relationship to survive, the woman needs to know these things. These ladies, they lay awake nights, sweating, staring at the ceiling, wondering to themselves: “I really like this guy, but I really want to know if he’s going to lock me in a basement for a week, only feeding me dog food and rainwater, while he wears my clothes and tells me how stupid they look. If only he would tell me that he isn’t going to do any of that.”

This is why heartbreak the world over exists in such large volumes. If lovers would just speak from the heart, and let their partner know their true feelings, we could all be happier. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go call my girlfriend to let her know that I will NOT be making a stir fry out of her calf muscles and all the vegetables sitting on my counter.

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