A Stabbing Pain in the Neck

There comes a time in any decades-long marriage, no matter how solid, loving, and in-for-the-long haul when you want to stab your beloved in the eye with a fork.

This is why all the women I know have at least one girlfriend in whom she can confide when she’s having one of those murderous days. Sure, you love the guy, you can’t imagine life without his companionship or his health insurance, but a small part of you would experience great joy at seeing him skewered on a stake and roasted slowly over a barbecue pit.

And here, since I’m a lawyer, I must insert a disclaimer:  In no way shape or form am I advocating actual violence.  There is never ever ever an excuse or justification for this sort of violence. If you use anything I say here as a defense or excuse in your criminal or civil trial, you are on your own.  This is merely inappropriate humor used to blow off steam in a (hopefully) relatable way.  In sum:  I’M KIDDING.  IT’S A JOKE.  I’m well aware that real murder is not funny, nor is real prison.  This is not that.  This is Elmer Fudd hunting Wabbits and the Coyote falling off a cliff.  Everyone will be fine in the next episode.

So in that vein, my friend Madison[1] texted me the other day and asked me if I would defend her if she accidentally stabbed her husband 57 times.  I told her I would.  For free.  And if she wanted, I might take a few forensic, investigative-type stabs myself just so I could properly understand her justification defense.

Then I came home to a sink full of dirty dishes and I had a better idea.  Instead of defending her, I would take the weed whacker to my own sweetum’s soft underbelly and Madison and I could share a prison cell.  Madison seemed overjoyed to have a cellmate she could trust.  She offered to practice making shivs out of toothbrushes.  I started Googling how to make hootch out of fruit cups.  We made vows to each other not to look when we used our shared potty.  She offered to hold my hair back when I threw up from the bad batches of hootch, but I told her that would be unnecessary.  My plan was to shave my head upon entry.  I see no need for hair in prison.  It’s just something to get pulled if I got into a fight or to get lice in if there was an outbreak.  I also planned on getting buff with all the free time.  I offered to be Madison’s muscle.  She’s much smaller than me and has a bad back.

As smelly as prisons tend to be, we both sighed dreamily about the idea of not being in charge of anything in particular.

Madison fantasized about her email’s autoresponder.  “Sorry.  I can’t respond to you for 10-20 years, or maybe ever.  I’m in prison.  Too bad, so sad.”

We’re both rules girls (except for the murder thing) and didn’t think we’d have trouble toeing the line and getting the coveted Trustee positions.  We would have time to read as many books as we wanted, even if they were just trashy romances from the prison library.  We could learn a practical skill like auto mechanics or electrical wiring.  The monotony of prison life seemed kind of soothing compared to our hectic days on the outside.

Then we thought about it for a while.  Neither one of us was keen on what might happen if we weren’t allowed to be cellmates.  Since we’d put so much time and effort into buying poster board and glitter at 11 o’clock at night so that projects might be completed by the next morning, we kind of wanted to see our kids’ graduations through to the end.

“Maybe the looney bin would be preferable,” Madison said.  “The drugs are better.”

“It’s a lot quieter,” I said.

“Insurance might even pay for it,” she said.  “How are you with your deductible this year?”

I thought about it for a minute, thought about the privilege that allowed us to even have this conversation, this little flight of fancy.  “We could just go out for Mexican at that place with the cute waiter that flirts for tips and order those giant fishbowl margaritas and make my son drive us home.”

“Yeah,” she said.  “Stabbing’s probably not a good idea.”

“It’s hard to get blood out of carpet,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.  “I thought about that.  I was going to do it in the shower with the water running.”

“Good thinking.  Meet you at 7?”

“See you then.”

[1] Not her real name.  Obviously not her real name.  No one over 40 is named Madison.  In fact, it was a PUNCHLINE in 1984 in the movie “Splash” when Daryl Hannah’s character wanted to be named “Madison.”  No one seems to remember that, but see for yourself… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8CRERCoC10 

If you enjoyed this and want to read more like it, visit Lori at her website, www.loriduffwrites.com , on Twitter, or on Facebook. Lori is a National Society of Newspaper Columnists 2018 Columnist winner, and a New Apple, Readers’ Favorite, and eLit award winner for her latest release, “You Know I Love You Because You’re Still Alive.”  She is also the author of the bestselling books “Mismatched Shoes and Upside Down Pizza,” and “The Armadillo, the Pickaxe, and the Laundry Basket.

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