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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment