Instead of watching one of the biggest matchups for the Texas Longhorns in recent memory, I attended a lovely dinner party at the home of one of my wife's numerous, fungible acquaintances. What luck! Who wants to watch some stupid football game, when you can sit around an uncomfortable dining table awkwardly conversing about petty shit with people you barely know?
That's what my wife thinks, apparently. And my wife's thoughts are my reality. My nightmarish, soul-crushing, nut-shriveling reality.
How did you spend your Saturday night? I spent mine listening to one of my wife's book club pals drone on and on and on about how amazing she is. She sells aromatherapy candles. She raises three kids. She manages rental properties. She's in two book clubs. She does yoga four nights a week. She knits her own scarves (exclusively Peruvian fair trade wool, of course). Just the other day, she almost forgot to pick her son up from piano lessons because she was stuck in her luxury full-sized SUV in the drive-thru at Starbuck's before racing off to pick up her two daughters from swim team.
Can you believe how many zany adventures this woman's Type A compulsiveness gets her into?!
Can you believe that she hasn't shut up for two-and-a-half fucking hours?!
I had to endure this horseshit for the entirety of the game. Which, of course, wasn't on the TV. Because our gracious hosts don't own a TV. They find that their lives are much more fulfilled without the distraction of a television in the house. I, on the other hand, found that my life was miserable on Saturday because these jackasses did not have the distraction of a television in their house.
Without a television, I had to make due checking the score via ESPN.com GameTracker on my iPhone. And, without a television, there is no convenient excuse to SHHHH!!! our hostess's braggery. So she went on, and on, and on. And on.
This woman was testing my patience. I could check the score on my iPhone. I could even get a quick report on the last few plays. But the game seemed to change constantly, resisting rhythm and refusing to betray any hints about which team would ultimately prevail. And, every time I peeked at my phone, my wife shot me that pursed-lipped "You just lost your annual birthday sex, asshole!" glare. I couldn't relax. My stomach tightened, bowels shifting pre-snap like a Harsin H back. My heart raced. My nerves twitched. But this narcissistic faux-blonde tramp just kept droning on about her amazing life. I found myself fighting back an overwhelming urge to punch her square in her self-impressed face. HARD. I looked down, and realized that my hands had balled up into white-knuckled fists. I knew if I didn't say something immediately, I was going to end up doing something I would later regret.
That's when, right in the middle of another story about juggling work, marriage, yuppie bullshit, and the raising of the three most amazing angels ever born to mankind, I stood up, looked this woman straight in the face, and said:
"SHUT. UP. HAG. The Texas Longhorns are -- AS I SPEAK -- in imminent danger of giving up yet another touchdown to West Virginia! WEST. FUCKING. VIRGINIA! Do you understand the gravity of this situation??? Can you even fathom what this means??? Do you have even the slightest fucking clue what is going on in Austin, Texas right this very moment, while you blather on about your meaningless existence?!? The cosmos gives exactly ZERO shits about your inconsequential successes, your child's Portugeuse language immersion program, or your husband's bonus check. THE UNIVERSE WILL CHURN ON LONG AFTER YOU ARE DEAD, DECOMPOSED, AND FORGOTTEN. But you know what will always be remembered? That Texas either won or lost to West Virginia in football on this very night. THAT will be recorded in history. So SHUT UP! for 20 freaking seconds and let us, the innocent victims of your unceasing braggadocio, focus on the important matter of college football without having to inhale the never ending stream of self-applauding blather vomiting forth from your seemingly perpetually-agape facehole!"
But what I really said was "I, uh... I need to go to... to gggoooo... to... the battthroom. I'llllll... uh... Excuse me."
I spent the next 45 minutes in the john, pretending to be sick, refreshing GameTracker while fielding questions like "Are you okay?," "Do you need to go to the doctor?," and "Do you want me to take half of your net worth and move the kids to Denver, you fucking asshole???" from the other side of the door.
Eventually, Texas lost and I exited the bathroom, probably looking fairly glum. As I slowly shuffled back to the dining room, shoulders hunched and head sunk in resignation, pondering various theories to explain the utter collapse of the Texas defense, our hostess noticed that I had emerged.
"Are you feeling better?" she asked, perkily.
"No. I mean... yeah. I guess." I replied.
"Oh, good! I was just about to tell about the time that little MacKenzie was at Taekwondo, and I got this call from one of my reps who was dealing with this TOTALLY overbearing client, and he..."
Sigh. I'd ask one of you to kill me now, if I wasn't already completely dead inside.
Moving on ... OU Sucks. But you'll have to let me know who wins. I'll be spending Saturday afternoon hauling the kids to ballet practice and soccer games while the wife and her friends are at yoga.
Hook'em for me!