When You Had a Bad Day or….How To Describe Elvis Died on the Shitter

elvis

My husband kidnapped me from my bad day. You have to admit, a man who does such a daring deed when his wife is breathing fire, going into weeping modes, and having Southern hissy fits over her child, is very brave.

So what does a guy do?

He stuffs her full of chocolate and Mountain Dew.

“I really,” sniffling into my Mountain Dew, “Am so upset…. (Hiccup) that I couldn’t write today.”

“I understand,” he said, with his hands crossed like Dr. Freud.

“Who are you, fucking Dr. Freud?”

He answers in German.

“I couldn’t even describe how Elvis died….all alone…on the shitter…”

He chokes.

“Or maybe, a better way, ‘He met his heavenly reward as the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll on his celestial throne.’”

He choked again.

“Don’t you realize how many names we have for the commode,” my Tourette’s brain went into circles.

“Shitter.”

“Crapper.”

“Throne.”

“Commode.”

“The John.”

“Anne….”

“No, not an Anne, but I do hearing taking a shit on the shitter is called an Obama…”

My husband was almost on the floor crying with laughter. The waitress was soon with him.

“What’s so amusing?”

“You. This is why I married you. You’re a shrew, you’re a dingbat, but you are the sweetest, most adorable, FUNNIEST woman I have ever met.”

I didn’t think I was being funny.

“I once had an uncle who died on the shitter. That crap killed him,” he told me about Uncle Cecil.

I giggled.

“I had a cousin, who was also my aunt who died with her husband on top of her….and she had to scream for two hours until the servants heard her. And it took two men to do the job of one,” I told him, “And she had a baby nine months later.”

He crowed, “Cousin aunt – Kentucky kin, right.”

I rolled my eyes.

As we drove home, the stories kept getting wilder and wilder until we could barely stand up in the driveway. Mrs. Clark peeked out her window and thought us drunkards entering the house, but we were laughing so hard.

“I once found my ex-boyfriend’s porn stash in my GRANDMOTHER’s old makeup case at my mother’s house,” I told him, “And he said it was my brother’s porn stash. So when I took my brother’s porn stash and quietly gave it to him, he informed me it wasn’t black boobage and it was my father’s porn stash. So, when I took the porn stash to my father, the poor innocent didn’t know such a thing existed until, looking at it with fascination in it’s case, he sent it back to my apartment. I had my ex-boyfriend then suggest it was my mother’s porn stash. It was only after I saw the initials on the VHS that I realized it was….”

“His porn stash. Your mother can’t even operate a VHS tape,” my husband was on the front step, crying by that time.

So, if you ever have a bad day – like I did – where you went from ranges of breathing fire, going into weeping mode, and having Southern hissy fits over your child, come hang out with us.

Because we ain’t right in the head.

(Which reminds me of the story, of one of my former aunts who died in the process of giving….)

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