An employee at Burger King recently said to Mr. Man, “I stopped reading your wife’s column because she’s so mean to you.”
Excuse me, I tell it like it is, and furthermore, it’s not as though I share his deepest, darkest secrets…you know, like how he clips his toenails at the kitchen table, or the way he leaves a dusting of nose hair in the bathroom sink.
Besides, if I don’t write about Mr. Man, what am I to discuss that would be of interest?
It’s not like I’m a walking encyclopedia of topics, after all, and in addition to writing this column, I do have a very demanding and stressful full-time job.
So somewhere between struggling to please my boss at work and scrubbing the kitchen floor, I must bang out something that will suit the editor, and hopefully, the readers, in a short amount of time.
And on top of that, if I were a professional writer, and if this were a professional column, sure, I would write about the Israeli air strike against Gaza, or the potential closing of the Twinkies company…but, I’m not a professional writer and the column is a hobby, like gardening, or crocheting, neither of which I am very good at, either.
You must admit, Mr. Man is nothing short of the world’s finest muse…I mean, who could ask for greater inspiration than a husband who belongs in the funny papers?
Snuffy Smith has nothing on Mr. Man when it comes to humorous put-downs and sarcastic remarks.
Just the other day, as we talked on the phone, Mr. Man was experiencing difficulty in backing out of his parking space at Hardee’s. I can understand his dilemma, given how popular Hardee’s is in the morning time.
“Okaaay, you blankety-blank-blank, you might not let me out, but by George, you’re not getting in!” he screamed at the driver behind him.
From the sound of sheer frustration in his voice, I was able to imagine the sight of bulging eyeballs ready to pop out of their sockets, a face as red as a fire engine, and hands gripping the steering wheel as though he might break it in two at any moment and use it to murder the other, unsuspecting driver.
And with that somewhat disturbing picture in mind, I casually said, “I wish someone would conduct a scientific analysis of the effect of testosterone on everyday mundane events like backing out of a parking space.”
Mr. Man, who thinks the government should mandate that every woman over 40 wear the patch, replied, “What about estrogen? All women are witches, and a witch is nothing more than an angry woman.”
Except, as you can well imagine, “witch” was not quite the word he used.
“Well, if a witch is an angry woman, then what, for heaven’s sake, is an angry old man?” I asked in a heroic attempt to wield a blow in defense of womankind.
“Normal,” he said, sure of himself, in his cockiest voice.
Ah, normal…well, of course. I was not surprised by his response, since he is the champion of quick come-backs.
Still, not willing to allow him the last word, I muttered in a venomous tone, “You’re a world-class smarty-pants.”
He did not appear to take offense at my accusation; rather, he reveled in it.
“That’s my birthright…I’m a man.”
Never let it be said that Mr. Man is not full of himself.