Why God created Eve

Me, “Darling, what on God’s great earth happened to you?’

The husband, “I was shot with a pepper gun.”

Me, “Deliberately?”

The husband, “Well sort of. We wanted to see if it worked.”

Me, “Anything else you want to share?”

The husband, “You remember that dent in the car?”

Me, “Vividly.”

The husband, “Well, now it’s symmetrical.”

Me, “Explain.”

The husband, “I dented the other side.”

God created women not because poor Adam was lonely, but because someone needed to be around to stop him doing utterly stupid things fueled on testosterone.

Why do I say this?

I say this because whenever the husband is left alone with his compadres something blindingly idiotic seems to happen.

There was the breakdancing incident a while back. Aged 38 husband’s friend decided to show off his moves.

This ended in a phone call asking me to come and take him to hospital. I refused and told them to call his girlfriend. She also refused.

Then there was the dog collar incident. Friends of ours had a dog who was a howler. So, they bought one of those dog collars that give a light electric shock each time the sound goes over a certain amount of decibels. Yes, anyone could see this was a disaster in the making.

Deciding to check if it worked, friend placed the dog collar around his throat. It would be good to point out at this juncture, that dogs have a certain amount fat and fur insulating the throat that men do not.

Once the collar was secure, he let off a roar. And then lay palpitating on the floor shouting loudly for someone to get it off. Each time he shouted he was electrocuted and failed to grasp the Pavlov’s dog reasoning that if he just shut up it would stop trying to fry him.

On Saturday night the husband and friend celebrated their 41st birthdays. If you thought by this advanced age reason and logic ruled, you were mistaken.

After quite a civilized afternoon I decamped to take three exhausted sprogs home, laboring under the misimpression that if anything went pear-shaped at least the friend’s fiancé was on hand to put the brakes on. She assumed, also mistakenly, that they were old enough to not destroy the house.

We should both know better.

The husband’s friend recently bought one of those self-defense pistols that shoot pepper spray balls at intruders.  He was curious if it worked or not.

One thing led to another and husband was shot at pointblank range in the chest.

Saved by fate, his cigarette lighter in his breast pocket deflected the shot and it exploded relatively harmlessly in the air rendering everyone gasping for breath, but husband unharmed.

Friend was unimpressed at the efficacy of the firearm and proceeded to shoot himself at pointblank range in the chest.

Being a non-smoker he was not protected by a Zippo and it punched him much like an enraged ass thus covering his face in toxic pepper spray.

He now has a large 20 cm welt on his chest and cried for his mummy.

Pepper spray is designed to react with water. So, you cannot wash your face or wipe your hands over your weeping eyes without causing more damage. It also covers everything in the near vicinity with a fine coating of pepper.

This means that friend’s entire house needs to be professionally cleaned.

There is a gap in the market for professional husband sitters.

And maybe stupidity insurance.

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I write because I have to. It is a compulsion. I do it to vent, to laugh and to remember. I blog because it has been so long since I had to write with a pen that my hand would go into cramp if I tried to write a journal.

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