No Sex for Me

 

(I have a sexless marriage.)

Yesterday, I got home at 6 p.m. and said hello to Dolly the dog. She licked my hands as I stroked her ears. I’m a huge fan of Dolly. She’s the best. I never thought that a simple little beast could bring me so much joy. Then I washed my hands and feet before putting on my jammies. After that, I sat down for the evening meal. I had rice, Chinese mushrooms, and shrimp.

I looked at the Dragon Lady. “This food is excellent. Thanks for the hard work.”

She gave me the silent treatment, so I listened to Pastor Charles Lawson on my smartphone instead. He likes to talk about people who think they’re saved but are actually careening at light speed toward the fiery pit of hell. I find him much more entertaining than libtard preachers who tell us all how wonderful we are. What’s the fun in that?

My wife broke her silence. “You not da good man. You go hell, too.”

I sighed heavily. “You might be right. I figure that my chances are fifty-fifty.”

Faith isn’t a problem that I’m currently struggling with. For instance, I have no doubt in my mind that Jesus came back from the dead. And I’m also positive that he is God in human form. Good for me. Rather, my struggle is with obedience to his word and instructions. This planet is chock full of satanic temptations—such as pornography, alcohol, and cigarettes. My marriage is pretty much sexless, and I’m a lustful glutton who rarely gets any pussy. Therefore, it’s very difficult to resist watching attractive women who fornicate on video. I don’t want to view such filth, but I’m weak and depraved. So what’s a boy to do?

I walked to my room and switched on Netflix. I’m now enjoying a series called Red Rose. It’s about a group of British teenagers who are being plagued by a demon invading their favorite social-media platforms. This dark spirit uses their addiction to mess up their lives and cause all kinds of chaos. But because of their thick accents, it’s tough to understand their words. Therefore, I’ve been forced to use closed captioning. Yet the experience is still quite rewarding. I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.

I fell asleep at 10 p.m. and had a dream about the rock group Lynyrd Skynyrd. I was sitting on a sofa with the lead singer Ronnie Van Zant.

I said, “I heard that you knocked out the piano player’s teeth.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t me. It was the whiskey.” He removed his hat to reveal his bald head. “Did you know that Steve Gaines actually had an IQ of 155. Such a waste of talent.”

I smiled at him. “No shit, huh?”

“No shit.”

I woke up at 6 a.m. and walked to the toilet. I tried to take a dump, but nothing came out. I merely farted a few times. The stench was terrible. It smelled like rotten eggs. Then I strolled to the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. The Dragon Lady was sitting at the table.

I said, “Good morning.”

No response. All I got was a hateful stare.

Later in the day, I wrote her a letter and sent it via email. I was at work at the time. I told her that she would have to visit a psychiatrist to prevent our divorce. I gently explained that I was too old for her poor behavior. She called me an hour later and threatened to cut my tongue out with a knife. I kid you not.