I’m about to be rich, seriously, filthy, dirty, fabulously R.I.C.H!! In addition to my impending wealth, I will be performing a huge public service, solving a big social problem, and facilitating the happiness of wives everywhere. Yes, kiddos, I’m THAT good!
What is this ode to universal goodness I’ve invented? At this moment, until my patent is granted, I’m calling this little miracle device Sperminator, the CockLock. This is how this caper will go down. Every couple presenting for a marriage license will receive one CockLock for the groom, and two keys for the bride (an heir and a spare, of course!). Following the wedding ceremony, and the exchanging of the rings, there will be a short ritual in a private room where the bride will present her new husband with his custom fit CockLock; she and she alone, will have total control over the key. Our bride can unlock the device at her whim, when it pleases her, and also for hygienic necessities. Under NO
circumcisions circumstances is the groom allowed access to the key. The Sperminator will come in nude only, with sizes ranging from Needle Dick, the Bug Fucker, right on up to Jumbotron, sized in honor of Baseball Bat Boy. Being a realist, I don’t foresee many men walking up to the pharmacy counter and declaring that they need Needle Dick, the Bug Fucker size, so I have built-in a select sizing device that a wife can adjust to her husband’s reality, not to his ego.
Just think of all the families that will remain intact, and marriages that will not implode because some silly boy (sometimes Govenators named Arnie) decided 10-20 minutes of fresh poon was worth risking it all. They’d have no reason to lie to their wives, and sneak around like lowly worms. Don’t they realize that at the end of the day, even the new whiff is going to become as ordinary and pedestrian as the poor wife they’re cheating on? I can just imagine the conversation at the family dinner table. “But Alice, if you would just unlock this thing for an hour, I promise I’ll just go
stop off at Susie’s for a quick drink and a little nooky to Home Depot and come right back. You know you can trust me, right, sweetheart?”
So, to Mark Sanford, Tiger Woods, Elliot Spitzer, Bill Clinton, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Prince Charles, John Edwards, Donald Trump, Rudy Guliani, Morgan Freeman, Joey Buttafuoco, Jesse James, Jude Law, Hugh Grant, and Charlie Sheen, let me first apologize to all of you for not inventing Sperminator, the CockLock in time to save you from your own little heads. And to my deceased husband, who I like to refer to as the D.A. (Dead Asshole), my deepest thanks for doing the right thing and eating a bullet just a few short hours before your little trollop was revealed. That was probably the most gracious act you showed me in 18 years of marriage.
Now, on to today’s chapter of “Texas Toast”. Two months after the black out and one month following the death of Elvis, Jack’s brother was in town and invited us out for Mexican food. Other than that, it was your ordinary Tuesday night in NYC. Sometime around 4AM, I woke up and saw Jack standing at the entrance to one of our bedroom closets. “Honey, are you OK?”, I asked him.
“I’m fine, what are you doing in the closet in the dark?”, Jack inquired.
All the blood drained from my body as I realized Jack’s voice had come from behind me. If he was in bed on the other side of me, that left one person too many in our bedroom. Suddenly everything began to happen at once; total pandemonium ensued. The tall, dark figure at the closet door suddenly swung toward the sound of our voices, and in the dimness of moonlight I could see the gun he was holding out in front of him, pointed directly at us. At the same moment, Jack jumped up on the bed, making himself look much larger than his 6’3″ frame, and he started bellowing out in his deep deejay voice, “Who the hell are you and what the f__k are you doing in my house?”. For a moment the entire tableau seemed frozen in time, and I realized we were about to be shot to death. My life did not flash before my eyes, as I’ve heard it so often does, but I experienced the most heart-wrenching sense of sadness and loss. To have finally found Jack and this wonderful life and love, and to lose it all after just four months, seemed so wrong, so random. Surely I stepped into the wrong karmic shoes that morning; this nightmare was most certainly intended for a different recipient.
Image from shutterstock.com
Suddenly there was a blur of motion as the burglar began to run around the foot of the bed to exit the room. We’d just had two of the bedroom walls mirrored in an effort to bring in more light and make it feel larger, and apparently the perp’s gun smashed into them in his frantic attempt to escape. There was the sound of running footsteps and breaking glass, and mostly, my terrified screaming. I had somehow propelled myself to the bedroom’s only window, and was shrieking to any of the other residents who might be awake, “Help us, there’s a man in our house and he has a gun; he’s going to kill us.” I screamed this over and over, so many times, like a demented mantra, that by the time the police arrived, my throat felt bloodied and raw.
When the burglar was out of the bedroom, Jack and I scooted the king size bed in front of the door. We knew the intruder was trapped in our elaborate system of door locks and would be unable to flee. Trapped, we were sure he would try to kill us. Like most city dwellers in Gotham, we had multiple locks on the apartment’s front door, most of which required keys to unlock. We would always carefully lock up each night, and hide the keys away. God knows what could have happened in the event of fire, but I was just thinking of keeping unwanted visitors OUT. We were both crouched down at the foot of the heavy bed, using our body weight as additional leverage to keep the door firmly shut. I knew that I would hear gunshots any minute now. Suddenly, there was the sound of more breaking glass, and male voices calling out, “Police, is anybody in here?”
After the very nice officers peeled me off the bedroom wall, and scoured the entire building for the intruder, we were able to piece together what had occurred. Instead of the man being trapped inside the apartment like we’d thought, he had actually left through the front door. Apparently, in a margarita-induced state following the Mexican restaurant, Jack and I had neglected to go through our usual locking-up routine. We were never exactly sure how the burglar got into the apartment in the first place, as the police crashed through two windows to gain access. Once inside, he had opened the front door, leaving himself an escape route. The whole time I was screaming like a demented banshee, the man was already well out of our building. The superindentent’s wife, Lupe (the entrepenurial candle seller on the night of the black out!) heard screams and happened to look out her peephole at the same moment a tall white man, dressed completely in black, with a ski mask concealing his face, emerged from the basement.
It was all very strange. The burglar had apparently been in the penthouse for quite some time before we were awakened, as he had a pile of loot waiting for him at the front door. My $3,000 Nikon, original Peter Max (of the Campbell’s soup can fame) nudes, and a very expensive sewing machine my parents had just given me for my birthday were all waiting for him to take. He did manage to steal all our cash, and jewelry, including many pieces belonging to my great-grandmother. The police dusted for fingerprints and determined they had been burned off. They felt this was the work of a professional cat burglar, probably someone who had recently been released from prison. We discovered that there is a network, a crime grapevine, in essence. Someone in one of the galleries where we purchased our paintings probably shared addresses and other info with criminals for a cut of their spoils.
Image from wigdahl.net
The strangest thing about this burglary wasn’t this tale, however. What happened for the next three Tuesday nights would defy belief, and I finally was beginning to understand the apartment walls had truly been trying to telegraph a message of danger. In three weeks time, I would be in major psychological counselling and a terrified wreck of a woman. Stay tuned for the next installment…