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Who shived you in the neck?

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Written by Northe   
Tuesday, 30 March 2010 11:17

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Damn right! Neckmurder! Like a sloppy slice of the jugular, we're gonna get the blood of Angry Time to spatter and spray wildly, as I do from time to time, to touch on something off topic I have deemed relevant. No need to smack our prey around like a playful jungle cat, let's just get right into this.

On a recent festive outing I was able to hear, second hand unfortunately, the discourse between these two old coots sharing each others company at a fancy steakhouse for dinner. The woman was one of those old bats that wears far too much of that periwinkle eye shadow, enough blush to make a cherub scoff and hair hived high and dyed the hue of some color that would never appear on the feathers of an exotic bird let alone on the head of a human being. The man, a beaten down soul sporting a nice collared cowboy shirt from the 1960s complete with swirly designs stitched into the fabric. Imagine my dismay when, friend to all who read this, loyal Angry Timer Sulu sitting across from me was doing his best impression of Cameron to Ferris trying to give me the heads up of the hilarity not but 10 feet from me and like Ferris, I couldn't get the hint. I kept looking around the room at everyone but the carnival act to my left until I finally caught on. Lucky me, as I wound up into my stretch and leaned back, smoother than The Fonz I must say, my eyes were already caught in the head lamps of the old son of a bitch I was trying to spy on. A quick wink and a nod sent the man's gaze away from yours truly and the story began to unfold.

The whole episode was told to me in sections as our dinner party recalled the night's events. For simplicity's sake, I will tell it chronologically. Going back to where things all began, we have our darling old couple, lady with her frozen alcoholic drink in hand spooning out the tasty treats, started off the evening with quite the unconventional greeting. With scorn plastered on his face, the man looked his bride in the eyes and said, nay, slurred out lazily, "You're so drunk..."

Take a second and gather that one. Here you are with your wife of likely 40 years, you've lasted the test of time, through the ups and downs, and throughout all the trials and tribulations of your life with this woman, you still have the tact to at least wait for the hostess to leave before you start in at how disgusted you are with her very existence. He shakes his head slowly as he unleashes the first barrage at the woman who successfully parries the attack by digging deeper into her margarita glass. The tell tale sign of any loving relationship, I'm sure.

Showing full well that they are the paradigms of a successful coupling, life's friend chance tests their eternal bond once more for the restaurant to bare witness to the treasure they share. As the man reaches along the table, to grab a fork to stab his wife's hand with I imagine, knocks an empty wine glass off the table. The sound is loud and startling to all of us in the vicinity. Now the lady, with all eyes on her, only knowing grace and adoration for her husband, leaps at the chance to clear the awkwardness in the air by saying, loud enough for all to hear, "That was you!"

Ah yes, quite the love birds. Showing the class of England's finest aristocracy, the woman makes sure to not just absolve herself from any possible confusion that she was involved her mate's clumsy performance but really brings forth that shame upon him. Upon proving that she is willing to die for the honor of her loved one, the man takes a moment to breathe it all in.

He leans back in his chair for a moment. There's a certain sparkle in his eye, his head tilted playfully like a puppy dog as he stares at the once beautiful, porcelain sexpot across the table from him. The mother of his children kicks a wafer of mint jelly the size of a quarter around on her dinner plate with her utensil and sighs dissatisfied with her meal. Lamb chops, lobster mashed potatoes, upwards of 6 or 7 margaritas, not nearly enough to satisfy this dame. Nay, only her husband is able to really break down that crusty defensive shell she's been putting on. It's all an act, a show, her finest performance of playing hard to get, she just wants him to make her feel like she's the only woman on the planet.

Clearly, he knows this and has been waiting all night to get that timeless smile of hers to emerge like a waning gibbous from behind bothersome clouds. It's like he's biding his time, counting the seconds before he makes her heart melt like whence they were teenagers. The meal is winding down, now is the time to really turn her into putty in his hands, he looks deep into her eyes, virtually kissing upon the nape of her neck and sending her to the moon with merely his look, "We're so lucky to be married."

The woman, dips her finger into that 6th or 7th margarita of hers and swirls it around. The attraction between the two hot enough to cause the frozen beverage to boil. She looks back at him, lifts the glass to her lip and takes a healthy swill. Keeping the drink in her hand and lowering it just below her chin, she speaks plainly back to him. Her voice, not as youthful and melodic as it used to be.. her looks, not as amazing as they once were, but her words, as glorious as ever, "Oh, gimme a break..."