Split Personality- Ladies, Meet Your Inner "Corky"

The Zen of Becoming a Kinder, Gentler Asshole

Corky

HEADLINE:  Post marriage, women develop and spew from their loins their “Inner-Corkies.”   It’s not as romantic as it sounds so let me explain.  Before I got married, I got along pretty well by myself.  I became an educated women, I got a job and successfully problem solved tasks from the mundane to the bizarre.  But once I married, something… changed.   It was ME, but only in my husband’s company.   See, occasionally, I morph into a mentally impaired Cro-Magnon-like dude named Corky who proudly displays twelve pair of underwear on his head and has a disembodied penis as an imaginary friend.  In case you’re wondering, I don’t know his imaginary penises name. We haven’t been properly introduced. Once provoked, my alter ego comes on me like sperm on a colossal set of fake tits-- hot and fast.

One evening the sprayer/hose from the kitchen sink leaked and my husband asked me, quite seriously,

“Hey, there’s a leak in the sink.  Did you use the kitchen hose correctly?” 

HUH? Did I use the hose CORRECTLY?   What the hell does that mean?  My body writhed, my face and neck twisted and contorted like a newly hatched alien baby and with a violent shake of my middle finger, out popped Corky. 
Holy shit! 
Where did he come from?  
My inner being was trapped while Corky started drooling and spraying himself with the hose.

“How Corky not know how to use water sprayer? Corky love water. Ha, ha, ha. Corky wash dishes in toilet next time.  Spray face, spray face!  Corky no use hose no more.   Water sprayer too complex for Corky.  Bad Corky!”

It really doesn’t help that my inner Corky sounds like cookie monster on crack when he speaks…

And what did my husband think of Corky? He acted like he hadn’t even noticed the outburst.  WTF?  Corky eventually reabsorbed back into my vagina.  Why does everything come in and out of my vagina?  Whatever.  It’s never long until he expels himself from my crotchel region again.

Just yesterday, I was driving with my husband and it began to rain. He glanced over at me and sighed as if I hadn’t noticed the changing weather.

“It’s raining. You know, you need to turn on the wipers and your lights?” 

With that, my head twitched and my body trembled.  This time I didn’t bother fighting the inevitable.  I opened my mouth and let out a scream that would have impressed the metal singer blaring on Sirius radio.  With the zest of a crisp fart breaking on leather seats, Corky exploded into the driver’s seat, ready and willing to navigate the car through the rainfall.

“Lights go on, off, on, off, on, off, on, on, on, on.  Corky want to lick wipers.”  With a maniacal laugh, Corky bashed his head on the steering wheel 10…20…40 times. 

“Beep, beep, beep.  Corky crash into house and kill us both.  No more need for lights. HAHHAHAHAH!”

You know, for being such a sped, Corky has some pretty good ideas.

              

The only time Corky doesn’t show up is when we’re having sex.   I’m a friggin guru then.  Some days, I just wish my inner Corky would pop out right when we’re about to ‘do it.’  

I can picture it now, “What this? LUBE? Corky love lube.  It Minty!”  

I can picture Corky snatching the lube and squeezing half the tube in his mouth.

“Make tongue numb.  HA HA!  What you doing?  Why you hand in you pants?  What you taking out of pants?  Uh uhh!  No, no.  Corky not put that in mouth!  Mom told me to say, ‘no!’   Get that away.  It smells like pee.”   

If Corky had a vagina, I could hear him laughing hysterically if he accidently queefed. 

“Ha, Ha!”  Corky make noise with Jayjay.  Make laugh.”  QUEEEEEEF   “Corky make pretty music with front butt.   Queef, Queef, Queeeeeeffffffffffffff!”   I can imagine him queefing to the tune of Yankee Doodle or something just as melodic from Queensryche. 

So, when you’re husband stares at you like you’re some crack-head dipshit, who eats with her feet and waxes stray cat’s assholes- just embrace your inner Corky and expel the crazy bastard from your vagina. Trust me, you’ll feel much better. Plus, you know you don’t have enough bail money for murdering your spouse and with your complexion you’d look like hot hell in prison orange.