You're Just the Right Fellow to Plow My Wife
By: Nathaniel Berne
The moment I set eyes on you—hold on, let me take that back—the moment I heard your commanding voice on the telephone, I knew instantly that you were just the right fellow to plow my wife. You had an air of entitlement that was so appropriate, given the task at hand.
My wife Julie is a delightful, beautiful woman with a heart full of passion, a desire for excitement, and some rough play.
Unfortunately, it has become clear over the years to myself, several of my grateful guy friends, and my wife's demented Aunt Martha that I am not the gent to satiate her more lustful needs. Family functions, once a light and merry time, have become a forum for my wife to discuss her complaints, especially how she “needs more hog”.
No, I am a mere accountant lacking the necessary agricultural background for such things. Digging trenches falls well outside my realm of expertise. Rather, I like to balance spreadsheets and look into outrageous expenditures. Sometimes I perform equations to relax. I like to go to bed early and I enjoy grapefruit. Aquaman is my favorite superhero.
I need a professional plowman.
And yup, you're the guy, let there be no doubt about it. Rippling biceps, alpha male personality, a history of bullying, large hands…yessir, everything to thrill a bored wife and make a husband feel completely emasculated and without worth. Looks like those classified ads sure paid off.
What's that? Why yes, I am quite capable of shutting up, and as you can plainly see, I have promptly complied with your gruff request to reposition myself as to cease acting as a physical obstruction between your rugged form and my wife's body, clad as it is in some slinky lingerie I've never seen before. In fact, please don't hesitate to further denigrate me during this entire spectacle if you should get the slightest impression that watching my Julie's head bounce off the drywall while you plow her from every imaginable angle isn't leaving me deeply traumatized as the half a man I am. Likely her shrieks will prevent this from happening, but you never know. I might try to go to a “happy place” where cuckoldry isn't real and scalding humiliation is just a mirage. In the event that this happens, may I suggest using one of the following expressions to snap me back into reality and utter debasement?
“You watching there little buddy?”
“Looks like your wife sure is enjoying herself pardner! Yeehaw!”
“Easy there honey, don't tear it off”
The part of me that loves my wife is overwhelmingly, almost tearfully happy for her. There is another part of me that keeps thinking about crimes against humanity and terrorism in a gleeful, slapstick sort of way. I'm in the starring role as Groucho Marx, the savior of cuckolds and the architect of the Final Solution. Yikes.
But we're all here to have fun right? Oh, you want a high five? What? It's called the “Eiffel Tower”? That must be a French expression. My wife looks quite tired sir, do you think she needs a break? No? More of the same? Great! I'll sit back down.
