Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Spring Fever, Love, and Too Many Forensic TV Shows
It’s spring, and love is budding out. Everywhere you look...love. Must be something about the warming temperatures and the smell of rain that gets Cupid to restring his bow for another year of hunting. All winter there was not a speck of love to be had—neither for love nor money.
But spring is different. People are holding hands. People are getting engaged. People are getting married. Couples having kids. Coupling and uncoupling and re-coupling and thermo-coupling until my coupling runneth over. (Forthwith, pray tell if thine spell check recognizes “runneth.” For mine doth not.)
But what is love? I mean, what’s it all about? We all say it—Hell, sometimes we even mean it. But what do we mean when we really mean it?
Is it a solemn promise to cherish me and stay by my side through thick and thin? That you’ll stick with me through sickness and health? That it seemed like the right thing to say? Till death do we part? Would you give me a kidney? Would you take a bullet with my name on it? What if it’s not that easy?
Trust me, not everything is revealed during premarital counseling. For instance, the concept of “guest towels” was never once mentioned. There’s plenty of uncharted territory even if you’ve been together for years. Try this little conversational experiment with your soul mate some night while flipping channels between Fear Factor and Cold Case Files.
>Honey?
>Yes, My love?
>Do you love me?
>Of course I do. With all my heart.
>Let’s say, if I was...in Federal prison. Would you love me then? Would you come visit me?
Now, we’ve established that there’s love. Thus, the correct answer would seem to be, “Absolutely. I would visit you and write you letters and bake you a cake with a file in it. I would hijack a helicopter, land it in the exercise yard and help you escape with me to Acapulco. Nothing could ever keep us apart. I love you no matter what.” You may get that answer. But then, you may get this instead...
>What did you do?
>It’s hypothetical. Would you stay with me even though I was in jail? Talk to me on the phone behind two inches of Plexiglas.
>Hypothetically then...What did you do?
This is a bad sign. Probing questions mean you’re talking conditions now. Specifying the terms of the agreement and outlining the rules. You’re establishing parameters. Yes. No. Maybe. It depends.
>Does it matter?
>Yeah, why are you in jail?
>Um, I dunno, say I killed someone.
>No. I couldn’t.
>What? I thought you loved me?
>Yeah, but if you murdered someone then you wouldn’t be the person I thought I loved. You would have deceived me. That would be wrong. I couldn’t love you then.
>What if I didn’t mean to—but I was framed or something. Wouldn’t you trust me?
>I’d have to call the police. It would be the right thing to do.
>Look, King of Queens is on...Go back...go back!
There’s a variation of this conversation I call, “Would you help me dispose of a body?” For extra fun, toss in some descriptive jargon such as bathtub or hacksaw and see what kind of answers you get. Change up the circumstances and feel around the edges. It was an accident. It was self-defense. An amazing fluke, but it would look criminal if you tried to explain it.
Either way, I guarantee you’ll find the answers enlightening. For instance, you might be dating some deranged psycho with a Bonnie and Clyde complex who’s just itching to help you chop up a body. Oh darling, I’ve been waiting for you to ask! Better to know sooner than later. Or, you could be married to a yellow stoolpigeon who would crack and sing the instant the cops started asking tough questions. Which is better?
I don’t know what the right answers are here folks. This love is tricky business. Maybe it’s just what your sweat smells like. Chemicals and pheromones and such. Maybe it’s divine and it would blind you if you looked at it directly without a welding mask. Maybe it’s insanity.
Summer—now there’s a season...
Anyhoo--if you are the type of friend that would be willing to help hide a body without asking a bunch of nosey questions, then please reply through my hotmail address. Have you got an old tarp?
But spring is different. People are holding hands. People are getting engaged. People are getting married. Couples having kids. Coupling and uncoupling and re-coupling and thermo-coupling until my coupling runneth over. (Forthwith, pray tell if thine spell check recognizes “runneth.” For mine doth not.)
But what is love? I mean, what’s it all about? We all say it—Hell, sometimes we even mean it. But what do we mean when we really mean it?
Is it a solemn promise to cherish me and stay by my side through thick and thin? That you’ll stick with me through sickness and health? That it seemed like the right thing to say? Till death do we part? Would you give me a kidney? Would you take a bullet with my name on it? What if it’s not that easy?
Trust me, not everything is revealed during premarital counseling. For instance, the concept of “guest towels” was never once mentioned. There’s plenty of uncharted territory even if you’ve been together for years. Try this little conversational experiment with your soul mate some night while flipping channels between Fear Factor and Cold Case Files.
>Honey?
>Yes, My love?
>Do you love me?
>Of course I do. With all my heart.
>Let’s say, if I was...in Federal prison. Would you love me then? Would you come visit me?
Now, we’ve established that there’s love. Thus, the correct answer would seem to be, “Absolutely. I would visit you and write you letters and bake you a cake with a file in it. I would hijack a helicopter, land it in the exercise yard and help you escape with me to Acapulco. Nothing could ever keep us apart. I love you no matter what.” You may get that answer. But then, you may get this instead...
>What did you do?
>It’s hypothetical. Would you stay with me even though I was in jail? Talk to me on the phone behind two inches of Plexiglas.
>Hypothetically then...What did you do?
This is a bad sign. Probing questions mean you’re talking conditions now. Specifying the terms of the agreement and outlining the rules. You’re establishing parameters. Yes. No. Maybe. It depends.
>Does it matter?
>Yeah, why are you in jail?
>Um, I dunno, say I killed someone.
>No. I couldn’t.
>What? I thought you loved me?
>Yeah, but if you murdered someone then you wouldn’t be the person I thought I loved. You would have deceived me. That would be wrong. I couldn’t love you then.
>What if I didn’t mean to—but I was framed or something. Wouldn’t you trust me?
>I’d have to call the police. It would be the right thing to do.
>Look, King of Queens is on...Go back...go back!
There’s a variation of this conversation I call, “Would you help me dispose of a body?” For extra fun, toss in some descriptive jargon such as bathtub or hacksaw and see what kind of answers you get. Change up the circumstances and feel around the edges. It was an accident. It was self-defense. An amazing fluke, but it would look criminal if you tried to explain it.
Either way, I guarantee you’ll find the answers enlightening. For instance, you might be dating some deranged psycho with a Bonnie and Clyde complex who’s just itching to help you chop up a body. Oh darling, I’ve been waiting for you to ask! Better to know sooner than later. Or, you could be married to a yellow stoolpigeon who would crack and sing the instant the cops started asking tough questions. Which is better?
I don’t know what the right answers are here folks. This love is tricky business. Maybe it’s just what your sweat smells like. Chemicals and pheromones and such. Maybe it’s divine and it would blind you if you looked at it directly without a welding mask. Maybe it’s insanity.
Summer—now there’s a season...
Anyhoo--if you are the type of friend that would be willing to help hide a body without asking a bunch of nosey questions, then please reply through my hotmail address. Have you got an old tarp?
Comments:
<< Home
>Yeah, but if you murdered someone then you wouldn’t be the person I thought I loved. You would have deceived me. That would be wrong. I couldn’t love you then.
>What if I didn’t mean to—but I was framed or something. Wouldn’t you trust me?
>I’d have to call the police. It would be the right thing to do.
>Look, King of Queens is on...Go back...go back!
Oh, Oz. You go, boy! Doesn't have the impact of 'you go girl,' does it?
I have these kinds of half-conversations with my other too. It's autodiscourse. She's worse. I take advantage. Sometimes five minutes later she'll realize I just told her I'm doing the neighbor lady, not the one with the cats, the one with the bikini, the blond, skinny blond? Out of the blue, way later, she'll say oh, yeah, right, sure, Curt, uh huh, you bet.
I've done this for years in order to prepare for the day when I actually do do the neighbor lady. Today I have total immunity. My wife would never believe me if I had an affair. I'd tell her, flat out, honey, me and the neighbor lady had sexual intercourse and we enjoyed it very much. And she would laugh and laugh.
Which is what all the neighbor ladies do.
Patrick, I'm enjoying your blog! You're like standup only you're sitting down and typing. Otherwise, the same.
Also, you crossed a thousand. What's it gonna be, GoBoy? "One article of clothing." Hey, if you really want visitors, ADD an article of clothing for every thousand.
Now there's a joke that builds over time.
>What if I didn’t mean to—but I was framed or something. Wouldn’t you trust me?
>I’d have to call the police. It would be the right thing to do.
>Look, King of Queens is on...Go back...go back!
Oh, Oz. You go, boy! Doesn't have the impact of 'you go girl,' does it?
I have these kinds of half-conversations with my other too. It's autodiscourse. She's worse. I take advantage. Sometimes five minutes later she'll realize I just told her I'm doing the neighbor lady, not the one with the cats, the one with the bikini, the blond, skinny blond? Out of the blue, way later, she'll say oh, yeah, right, sure, Curt, uh huh, you bet.
I've done this for years in order to prepare for the day when I actually do do the neighbor lady. Today I have total immunity. My wife would never believe me if I had an affair. I'd tell her, flat out, honey, me and the neighbor lady had sexual intercourse and we enjoyed it very much. And she would laugh and laugh.
Which is what all the neighbor ladies do.
Patrick, I'm enjoying your blog! You're like standup only you're sitting down and typing. Otherwise, the same.
Also, you crossed a thousand. What's it gonna be, GoBoy? "One article of clothing." Hey, if you really want visitors, ADD an article of clothing for every thousand.
Now there's a joke that builds over time.
Pstan. There's a guy that oughta blog. They say the most "successful" blogs (ones with big hits) are specific to an obscure subject, like a type of motorcycle. Maybe. But it'd more me and you to death, and now that I think about it, Pstan as well. He could do a Guns, Bikes, Tits & Clits site... but not on a free blog.
Post a Comment
<< Home
