It's My Masonic Apron's Totes Awesomesauce Giveaway, Motherfuckers!

Okay, asshats, here's the deal:

To increase weekend readership, I have decided to whore my bloody, ravaged little cockmeister out on y'alls and have a giveaway. I know, I know: giveaways are the Chlamydia of the blogosphere, but, hey, don't say I never gave ya nothin'.

Now, I know I've gotten a reputation around these here parts as being somewhat anti, well, everything that's popular, but, let's face it: I'm not as antidisestablishmentarian as I drink you am. I mean, I was all over the 90-minute season premiere of "Runway" on Thursday night. I'm so fucking into it, I even call it "Runway," for Christ's sake. "Project Runway" is for the non-initiated and disaffected. True, I was not digging Heidi's bangs necessarily, nor was I into the social fuckdiot wearing the bowler hat, but I am all about "Runway," and that's popular, I guess.

Still, I haven't seen "Titanic" or "Moulin Rouge" yet, nor have I heard a Carrie Underpants song all the way through, and you'll never catch me playing Beer Pong. Maybe I'd referee, if I could wear a cool, short-sleeved uniform shirt and charcoal grey trousers.

Nevertheless, children, try as one might, it is nigh impossible to eschew everything that's popular. And, it is in the spirit of that sentiment that I have decided, against my better judgment, to host the first ever, lunar module, domestically charged, animal controlled

MY MASONIC APRON'S TOTES AWESOMESAUCE GIVEAWAY, MOTHERFUCKERS

Here's how it works:

I treat you like a Salvation Army drop-off location and dump every shitty, worthless, dust-covered, possibly irreparable item on my desk on you. You compete for the honor of winning it by jumping through a series of arbitrarily-chosen, slightly misogynistic hoops. After you have jumped successfully through the series of arbitrarily-chosen, slightly misogynistic hoops, I will just randomly pick whoever the fuck I want as the winner, and send them all my shit.

Ready? Here's what I'm giving away. Open wide, bitches:

One (1) shoulder pad, covered in two distinctly different kinds (gray & coarse, blonde & fine) of dog hair.

One (1) empty Zip-Loc baggie (purple & pink make whatever)

One (1) Original Broadway cast recording of "Into the Woods" (Baker = Chip Zien, Baker's Wife = Joanna Gleason, Mysterious Man/Narrator = Tom Aldredge). Also covered in dog hair x2.

Two (2) AA Energizer alkaline batteries (good until 03-2015!!!)

One (1) squishy stress brain (gray).

August, 2010 edition of "Reader's Digest" and before you say, "That faggot reads 'Reader's Digest'?!!!" stop yourself-- it's my wife's, and her psychologically questionable uncle gave her the subscription as a "gift."

A handwritten list of how much money we spent on fixing the PT Cruiser in the past three years. Curious? Here's the details:

Door Locks Crazily Locking & Unlocking Themselves = $50.29

Crack in the aluminum wheel = $47.70

Tire replacement = $127.20

Oxygen sensor = $285.56

Tire replacement = $108.12

Busticated tie-rod = $395.38

Beschmoigied bushings = $412.02

Bumfucked ignition wires = $100.00

Tire replacement = $137.80

Snapped off dog-bone suspension = $180.73

(Total? = $1,800, more or less. Yeah... we fuck up our tires a lot. And they always seem to cost a different amount to replace. Funny. That's what happens when Israelis fix your car.)

One (1) NYC Metrocard (exp. 08/31-- there's still time!!!) May actually have money or something on it. Who wants to see a show?!

One (1) pamphlet advertising the "Jim Henson's Fantastic World" at Michener Art Museum in Doylestown. Slightly creased.

One (1) postcard from San Francisco from Mrs. Apron's brother upon which he scrawled, "HAPPY SAN FRANCISCO!" A real four-star communicator there.

One (1) half-used tube of Neosporin.

Now, here's what you have to do to get the swag:

1.) In the COMMENTS section of the blog (WE HEART COMMENTS!) write three haikus on the following subjects: 1.) The aesthetic virtues of the original "Pink Panther" film, 2.) The aesthetic virtues of my scrotal area, 3.) Seal-clubbing.

2.) Carve a 1/18th-scale rendering of Herbie, the Love Bug in exacting detail out of alabaster

and send it to the American Embassy in the United Arab Emirates. (I will arrange for them to send to me-- I don't trust you with my home address.)

3.) Eat nothing but hard-boiled eggs and mortadella for a period of ten weeks, keep an exacting journal of your bowel movements and send photostatic copies of your notations to the Chinese Embassy in Uganda. (I will arrange for them to send to those motherfuckers in the U.A.E.)

4.) In the COMMENTS section of the blog (COMMENTS ARE FARKING HAWT!) write a list of seventeen compelling reasons why I should be named The Free State of Saxony's Man-of-the-Year.

5.) Take off all your clothes and run around your neighborhood like a fucking idiot screaming "ALL I WANT IS A MASONIC APRON AND/OR A SMALL TEDDY BEAR TO WIPE MY ASS WITH!"

6.) Get arrested. If you do #5, this one should come pretty easy.

7.) Write me a love letter. But, like, not a really hot one, 'cause I'm married and shit.

8.) Write me legal subpoena. But, like, not a really hot one, 'cause I'm married and shit.

9.) Go to a Quaker Meeting for Worship. Fart. Loudly blame the elderly lady sitting next to you named Fran.

10.) Smile, because it's Saturday, and, hey, you're cool in your Ray Bans and madras shorts.

Hey, thanks for participating in "My Masonic Apron's Totes Awesomesauce Giveaway, Motherfuckers." I'll be sure to contact the lucky winner whenever I feel like it. And, if you're really lucky, I'll throw in a crumpled Post-It note with the username and password for my father's business Facebook account that I created for him last year and then forgot to ever update.

Well, Fuck My Sheep and Totes My Goats, It's... DEAR APRON!

After that shart-filled, schmoopie post about giving sensitive advice to chicks and stuff, I thought I'd better hetero it up around here with another beer drinkin', dick slappin' edition of...

DEAR APRON:

My 89-year-old mother has always been difficult. She not only never loved me, she treated me as if she didn't like me, either. She told me she didn't send me a birthday card on my birthday last month because "What was it supposed to say -- what a 'wonderful' person you are?" My children visibly winced when they heard her say it and worked extra-hard to make sure my day was special.

Apron, I have cancer. My prognosis is questionable. I was supposed to have been dead seven years ago -- but I'm managing. My problem is, I recently was told that my mother has been keeping in touch with a single friend of mine from years ago, and they are making plans for her to marry my husband when I die! A few other so-called "friends" are in on this. This last betrayal is incredibly hurtful. Where do I go from here? -- J.C. IN CALIFORNIA

DEAR J.C.

Where do you go from here? Well, I don't know-- you've got lots of options, though. I hear that Utah has some really beautiful natural sights, and there's always the Ozarks. Of course, the Lake George area is always gorgeous, but, this time of year, bring your sunscreen. But, if tall ships and lobster are your thing, you can't beat Camden, Maine. If you're interested in some particularly slammin' dinner theatre, Boca Raton might be your cup of tea. And, if you dig retarded people who aren't actually diagnosably retarded, there's always Natchez, MS. Wherever you decide to travel in these waning months of your unloved life, just remember, only you can prevent forest fires.

Oh, and, J.C.-- I don't think it's your prognosis that's questionable, I think it's your oncologist.

DEAR APRON:

My daughter and 12-year-old grandson "Patrick" visit me on Sundays. Patrick watches TV in my office.

I was recently looking at the history on my Web browser after he had been there, and I noticed that Patrick had been visiting free porn sites and chat rooms on my computer.

I am disappointed that he has been looking at pornography and that he has put my computer at risk for viruses, etc. Should I talk to his parents? To him? Or should I ignore it and disable my computer when he visits? -- GRANDMA ON ALERT

DEAR GRANDMA:

I totes heart the sentence "Patrick watches TV in my office," when the following sentence clearly and immediately disproves the first sentence. That's DP anal-fucking hilarious.

I also love how you're #1, disappointed in Patrick for looking at porn, and, #2, that he's put your computer at risk for viruses. At least your priorities are in order. Did you know you can get a computer virus from buying that Amethyst costume jewelry from QVC online, too, Grammaw?

What's even more interesting than the aforementioned points of mine is the fact that you are not at all, apparently, disturbed by the fact that Patrick is totally jerking the fuck off all over your barcalounger. If you did the "Dateline NBC" blacklight test on your office, it would look like some psych patient had just gone batshit with several gallons of Elmer's Glue. I'm talkin' walls, keyboard, ceiling, everywhere. What-- you weren't suspicious when you found yourself purchasing twenty-seven boxes of Kleenex every other week?

Jesus-- I don't know what you are, Grandma, but you are most definitely, in no way, shape, or form, not "on alert."

DEAR APRON:

I am 20, newly married and very happy with my new husband. I didn't tell my father when I got married; he just found out. When I moved out four months ago to live with my fiance and his parents, I also didn't tell Dad I was engaged.

Dad called me to ask if it was true that I had gotten married. Of course I said yes, and he got very angry. He asked if I was pregnant and I told him no. Then he wished me luck with my husband, said we were on our own now, and he would be out of my life!

Apron, I have always been a daddy's girl. When it came time to get married, I didn't tell him because I knew he'd try to stop me. I love my father and don't want him out of my life. What should I do? -- NEWLYWED IN JACKSON, MICH.

DEAR NEWLYWED:

You've always been a Daddy's Girl and you didn't tell your dad you were getting married, or that you were moving in with your fiance and his parents?

You're not a Daddy's Girl-- you're just a fucking idiot. T-minus two years till you're a divorced fucking idiot.

'Till then, good luck with your husband, you're on your own now, and I'm out of your life.

I am Jealous

I am jealous of your toenails,
Yes, that is what I think.
Mine look like bleu-cheese crumbles,
They are not smooth and pink.

I got Athlete’s Foot in third grade,
When they made us all take swimming.
That locker-room was nasty,
You can trust me, I’m not kidding.

They tried ointments, sprays and creams,
And some other nasty stuff.
But nothing seemed to work on me,
My soles are itchy and rough.

My coworkers wear sandals,
As if to flaunt their goods,
Their pearly, pretty toenails,
Mine look like Volkswagen hoods.

And so I hide them under shoes,
Which makes the problem worse.
Because my feet sweat like bastards,
It’s my non-Athletic curse.

Shart

Yesterday, a coworker told me about the time she sharted herself.

“I must have eaten something foul,” she said. “I was sitting with my boyfriend, and I was in a towel… and I just sharted all over the place.”

She and I laughed hysterically, the kind of laughter that desperate people exude with a sort of wild abandon that disturbs non-desperate people who happen to be standing close enough to witness the unbridled, convulsive hilarity, but not close enough to have heard the story and/or be in on the joke.

“Who cleaned up—him or you?” I asked in between howling, spasmodic laughter.

She pointed to herself, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Aaaaah!” I screamed, pounding the wall. Other coworkers stared at us. “You’re not together anymore, are you?”

She was laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe to answer vocally, so she just shook her head in the negative.

“He wasn’t a keeper,” I said, composing myself. “A keeper would have wiped your ass for you.”

“He said, ‘Unless you’re under eight or over eighty-four, you can wipe up your own shit.’ We didn’t last too much longer,” my coworker replied.

She then told me that, aside from her now ex-boyfriend, I am the only person in the world who knows that story. While she’s probably told it to people whilst intoxicated, I was flattered nonetheless.

“I’m glad we’re friends!” she gasped finally, launching into a lusty rendition of “The Wizard and I” from “Wicked,” which I joined in on, harmonizing (of sorts) in a raging, ultra high-decibel falsetto that echoed down the hallway. Coworkers continued to be suitably disturbed.

The funny thing is: we’re not friends. We don’t chat on the phone, or over email. We don’t socialize outside of “work” (in quotes because it’s not a real job—not really— not if you can talk loudly about sharting—it’s just “work”) and we don’t know anything about each other’s families or history or… anything, really.

And yet, I know that, a couple of years ago, this chick shat herself in nothing but a towel in front of a guy she used to fuck.

Why?

I don’t know… people tell me stuff. It makes them feel better, I think. It’s always been like that, too, for as far back as I can remember. In middle and high school, and even into college, I was the counselor, the person people would come to with relationship dilemma, existential crises, family trouble, boyfriend trouble, family drama, typical, random every day bullshit. Nobody’s ever called me with a razor to their wrist, thankfully, but for the more banal, the more mundane, the less life-threatening—folks often show up at my doorstep, or my cyber-doorstep with those issues.

I’m not quite sure why. But I kind of like it.

I’ve always wanted to be, I don’t know—important? And there nothing more important that people can trust you with than their problems, their pain, their secrets… their sharts. And, of course, I’ve totally violated this coworker’s trust by blogging about her shartage, but coworkers don’t know about my blog, and that, ladies and gents, is how it’s supposed to be.

So, her secret’s safe with me. Sort of.

Contrary to my alter-ego, Dear Apron, I treat people who come to me with dignity and respect, I hope, because, let’s face it, if somebody trusts me enough to come to me with something weighty, the most terrible thing I could do would be to drop it—or them. It’s the least I can do for a brotha or a sista, or a friend. Whatever that is.

Conversely, I’m dreadfully petrified to open up to people, to let them get close, to see me vulnerable or afraid or unsure. It’s why my opinions tend to come out so strong, so unfettered by indecision or hem-hawage. I sit with my legs tightly crossed and arms folded across my chest. An old friend of mine regarded me for a time and observed, “You like to fold yourself all up, almost into yourself, making yourself as small as humanly possible—so you don’t get into anybody’s way, or make a wave, or trouble someone.”

He’s going into psychiatry, and I love him. And I wish we saw each other more.

Ah, life. Sometimes, you’re a real shart. But you’re still a keeper.

Up Go the Trolley Cars

There’s a lot of shit on the desk.

Our computer desk is a repository for the randomest junk imaginable. Most of the time, I don’t even see it anymore. My eyes just kind of glaze over it, drifting listlessly from our real estate tax bill (not due until August 31st, thank you) to the black pen to the red pen to the pen with flowers all over it to the pair of orange-handled scissors to the orange camera case to the “Peter Pan” program to the pink scrap of fabric with dress mannequins on it.

There’s one item here that really stands out. It’s a 1/24th scale silver Volkswagen Beetle with a long piece of wire sticking out from the center of its hood, right where the VW medalion would be, you know, if it were a real car, and, at the end of the piece of the wire is a curly-q and, shoved into that curly-q is a photograph.

Like, an actual, real, no-bullshit photograph that's 4x6ish. It's me & the Mrs. The Mrs. & I. The Apron-heads. In this picture, it's 2005. She's wearing the same eyeglasses she's got on today. Mine have changed approximately six times since then. Her hair is shortish, and a wisp of it is flying clear across her fair forehead. She's got on her red "Elmo" fleece. I'm wearing a red, blue, and gray bowtie she handmade for me. I've got on a parka. Do people still call them "parkas?" I am out-of-touch-- with style. Reality. A lot of things.

We're sitting on a bench, but you can't see it in the picture. All you can see is us, in front of a brick wall. Beautiful, blood-red bricks-- bolder and stronger than your average brick, because they were hand-commissioned for a man who was bolder and stronger than the average man.

"I am not an American," he said, "I am the American."

We're sitting on a bench on Mark Twain's porch. The Hartford Home. 351 Farmington Avenue. "Up go the trolley cars for Mark Twain's daughter. Down go the trolley cars for Mark Twain's daughter." That's what his daughter, Susy, said, over and over again as she watched the traffic go by from her bedroom window, in the final hours of her life, her brain ravaged by spinal meningitis-- hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the family that loved her. Susy Clemens was 24.

The picture of us was taken on October 9th, 2005-- Mrs. Apron's birthday. She had just turned 24. Moments before this picture was taken, I proposed. I was behaving like a whackjob all during the tour. I kept putting my hand inside my pocket to make sure the box with the ring was still in there. Because I would lose it. Because birds shit in my eye. Because I am incapable, incompetent, in...conclusive. But never inebriated.

Thankfully. Wouldn't help.

When my wife asked me later why I decided to propose to her at Mark Twain's house, I didn't have an immediate answer at the ready. It took me a little while to figure it all out. It was a house that had seen so much sadness-- Twain nearly drove his family to financial ruin, and to save on expenses, he was forced to shut up the Hartford Home he and his family loved so and travel like a vagabond. He lost the love of his life, little Susy, in that home, and he didn't even make it back for the funeral. But, it was a house that Twain had specially built to surround his family in peace, opulence, and love. It was a house, he said, that would "celebrate this kind of love." The love he had for his wife, Livy.

The Hartford Home is the epicenter of Victorian beauty, grace, delicacy, extravagence, and refinement. Being in it, for me, is like being hugged by the past-- and I like that. More than that, I suppose, and I was finally able to articulate this to my wife after some inevitable Apron-style fumbling-- I wanted to propose to her in a spot that I was sure would always, always be. Yes, there was a time in the past where the future of the Hartford Home was uncertain-- it was unceremoniously chopped up into apartments in the 1940s, I believe, before it was rescued and rehabbed. But, it was Mark Twain's home, and, therefore, it will survive. It will endure. There will be literati and philanthropists who will swoop in and save it from ruin. They will hug it back. I was worried that, if I proposed to her in some place of perhaps lesser significance that, some day, that place will not be there anymore.

And, if our love is to go on forever, well, I'd kind of like the locale of the proposal to go on forever, too. Or as close to forever as we can reasonably expect.

This past weekend, when we were playing in the ocean together in Brigantine, the waves were breaking over our backs and, sometimes, our heads, and as my wife squealed (totes) with delight, and as I held her around her waist, I felt the euphoria and exhilaration I felt in June or July of 2005 when we did the same in Ventnor in the ocean, laughing and loving atop the shell-coated sea-floor together, the waves crashing all around us-- us jumping around like children.

"I almost proposed to you there, in the ocean, that day," I told her later, "and I know that the Atlantic Ocean will always be there, but how could we be sure that it was that exact spot-- by that rock jetty, or was it that one half-a-mile down? How would we know for sure?"

Besides: people pee in there, you know.

Scout's Honor

So, maybe you remember that we're gardening.

Well, a little while ago, in the process of watering said garden, Mrs. Apron broke our hose, right off the spigot of our house. I know, something in/on our house broke and I wasn't responsible? Believe me, I was as shocked as you.

In order that we may attempt to perpetuate photosynthesis in our little patch of earth, we went to the local hardware store to purchase a hose. Mrs. Apron decided that the hose must be kink-resistant. After I chided her for being anti-Semitic, I decided that the hose must have a trigger-like attachment with multiple flow settings, like the shower-heads preferred by 9 out of 10 masturbators. My wife agreed to my decision, and I to hers. See, every relationship and everything in a relationship has its non-negotiables.

The hose-head attachment that we purchased has eight different flow patterns, ranging from Soak to Stream to Shower, Spray, Mist and Flat. And others. Two others, to be precise.

Anyway, when we put the new hose in and attached the trigger thing, we were so excited that not only did we water the garden, but we washed both of our cars in the driveway, like real suburban grown up adult type people.

As happens every time I wash my car by hand, it rained the next day. Not only that, but, in a matter of just a couple days, the roof of my car was absolutely littered with a delectable helping of bird shit.

Fortunately, none in my eye.

This weekend, my wife and I "vacationed" with my family at the New Jersey shore. We went in my car, because it's a compromise-- the Fit gets better gas mileage, the Volvo has better seats. This time, better seats were the non-negotiable. Yesterday, coming back to the beach house from a bizarre, only-in-my-family errand, I spotted a familiar sight: that of young, scantily-clad girls washing cars. In the parking lot of the local Elk's Lodge. This frequently happens in my neighborhood, at a Sunoco station. Usually it's to benefit a cheerleading squad, or a softball team. It's always cheap, and that's supposed to be funny.

I never stop, because, well, you know. How can I participate in the sexualization of young women by permitting them to slather my car full of soap while they're wearing little shorts and sweating and such? It's, you know, weird. Maybe this is just me overthinking things the way I am known to do, or maybe everyone else is thinking it too, and they just do it anyway. Maybe the middle-aged housewives do it because they remember doing it when they were young, too. Maybe the middle-aged men do it because they have raging hardons for young chicks. Maybe some people actually do it because $5.00 is a good price for a car-wash.

On Sunday, I drove into the parking lot. Because my roof is absolutely covered in birdshit, I told myself. Because I have to get over feeling guilty and perverted about everything. Because sometimes a car wash is just a car wash.

Besides, it's the Girl Scouts. What could be more wholesome than that?

A bronzed, sixteen-or-so-year-old blonde girl in a lilac-colored bikini bottom and dark purple tank-top bounded over to my car window. I handed over my five dollars, and I felt like the most disgusting human being on the face of the earth. It was around 700 degrees out, so I stayed in the car. I stared straight ahead while the car got, you know, washed. It only got weird when a girl in a white tank top leaned over the hood to scrub it. I stared at the headliner of my car and noticed how it contained tightly interwoven strands of fabric, as opposed to cheaper cars whose headliners are just a solid piece of fabric or, worse, vinyl.

Really, the more I think about it, the less I blame myself. I kind of blame the Girl Scouts. And the basketball teams. And the cheerleading squads. Whose idea was it to send teenage girls out into hot parking lots with buckets of soapy water in barely any clothes to go wash cars for money? Haven't these fucking people ever heard of bake sales? I would be happier if they sold flowers in the airport like the Hari Krishna whackjobs used to do in the 1970s. I know the Boyscouts are trying to turn America's male teenagers into duty-loving homophobes, so I suppose it should come as no surprise that the Girlscouts are trying to turn America's teenage girls into soapy sex symbols.

When I got back to my the beach house, my wife and sister were playing with my nephew on a sheet on the floor. Guilt weighed heavily on my conscience so I told my whole family where I had been and what I had been doing there, in case a neighbor came by to report me.

"The Boy Scouts washed your car?" my father asked after I had finished my Strindbergian monologue.

"No," I said, "Girl. The goddamned Girl Scouts washed my fucking car."

"Oh, okay," he said, skimming through text messages on his phone. I shook my head and guiltily schlumped into the sofa.

"What color sashes were they wearing?" asked my mother.

"Sashes?!" I exclaimed, "you think they were out there washing cars in their fucking uniforms?! They were dressed like pin-up models." I closed my eyes and put my head back into the cushion, hoping it would suffocate me.

"It's okay, honey," my wife said, "you just got sold sex for $5.00."

"But the car is really clean," I replied.

"I'm sure it is," said my sister, smiling, "did they rub their little tussies all over it?"

Hi, I'm Disgusting. Nice to Meet You.

On Thursday, my wife was leaving the house for an appointment, and the age-old question of "What do you want for dinner?" was hanging in the air like a long... dangly thing.

My wife, as she grabbed her go-bag, reminded me of the small, Italian market we used to go to rather frequently two neighborhoods ago.

"Holy cocks!" I said, with typical eloquence and aplomb, "I totally forgot about that fucking place. Let's do it."

It's teeny-tiny, and every breathable inch of space is taken up by sumptuous, delectable comestibilities. Everything that isn't canned is made on location, live, before a studio audience.

Lobster ravioli

Garlic sausage

Bevilacqua (or some shit) sauce

Meatballs in meatsauce, with some meat on the side

Bacon cheddar burgers

Lots of unbelievable looking Italian shit I can't pronounce or remember

(This, children, is why I am not a food writer.)

Anyway, my eyes glazed over the instant I walked into this place. It was 5:24 when I arrived, and they close at 6:00, so it was jammin' with teased up, underworked tennis wives picking up fru-fru food for their philanderers.

I blindly picked and pawed at items that appealed to some of my baser instincts (read: need. for. flesh.) Here's what I got for my vegetarian wife:

1/2 pound of vegetable risotto
1/2 pound of sun-dried tomato (I know, it's not 1994 anymore) farfalle

Here's what I got for meatnormous, motherlovin' me:

A half-pound of meatballs in meatsauce
1.65 pounds of baked Grouper

Total cost for "dinner, honey": $41.62.

Oops.

As I walked out into the parking lot, carrying my rather heavy bag of swag, I muttered under my breath, "Yes, world-- this is what happens when you send me out to do errands. Unsupervised."

See, I'm not the stereotypical husband who gets sent to the supermarket for pimento olives and comes back with kumquats. I'm not brain-dead, I just think with my food-dick. I get what looks, smells, and (probably) tastes good. I don't care what it costs. Doesn't interest me in the slightest. Because no meal is as important as the one I am currently shopping for and/or am about to eat.

When my wife came back from her appointment, dinner was prepared. She was in the process of having a regular old heart-to-heart with her sister on the phone, so I kept the massive quantities of food warm while she talked outside on the porch. When Mrs. Apron came inside, it was time for a heart-to-heart with me. I prepared myself for this by putting the entirety of the 1.65 pounds of Grouper onto my plate. And some of the risotto. And, later, some of the farfalle. Halfway through my meal I stopped the serious conversation to state,

"Eating this all in one go is not smart."

"You don't have to eat all of it, you know," my wife wisely stated, her rationales and logic completely and comfortingly devoid of mentions of swollen-bellied Indian children and West African street urchins.

"I know."

"But you probably will," she concluded. I shoved some more Grouper into my vacuum mouth.

"Mmpf-hmmpf."

As we climbed into bed later that night I turned to her and said,

"Gee, I hope I don't throw up on you tonight."

"Me, too," replied my darling wife.

I was somewhat alarmed when I awoke at precisely 4:00am on Friday morning, my forehead and lower back glistening with sweat. When I was younger, 4:30am was Throw-Up Time. When I vomited, it always happened at 4:30am. It was like curtain time for my blarchges. I could feel things moving up and down my esophagus, things that I could only assume were Grouper-like in nature, swimming up the canal towards the basin that is my mouth.

"What a fucking pig," I thought to myself as I propped myself up in bed, "Over a pound-and-a-half of fish. I deserve what's about to happen to me."

But, in the end, nothing happened to me. I got up, I peed, and I went back to sleep. The Grouper knew no revenge upon me, and my wife passed another night of not getting vomited on. I went to school with a girl who, according to popular legend, at least, was getting drilled doggy-style and the inebriated gentleman doing the drilling vomited all over her back. That's the kind of thing that happens in college. You don't marry someone and then throw up on them, either during sex or just after a raucous night of Grouperage.

One thing's for sure, though. I can't wait to hit those motherfucking meatballs.