Reject-a-day II

by brightonsauce

This one was probably 2014, the ‘early years.’  Reading it now – does not quite make visual sense completely, hmm.  As for submission, she went to a website, lots of criticism along the lines of ‘Seve is Spanish, you cocker-man.’  Also, historically I up-dated original spelling ‘Pistorious.’  I suppose his murdering kind of ruined my jokes, unforgivable.


Wife suffered some kind of mental episode yesterday evening, suggested we dedicate our lives to the golf club membership. Forty-eight hours I tolerated her empty tins of Budweiser, a woman pacing the bedroom in the bowler hat, stars n stripes two piece and fluffy slipper boots.

‘YOO ETH AY’ she taunted, her tiny fist rolled in the air. ‘Go Tigers,’ and ‘Which one is that?’ she said.

‘Seve, the Frenchman,’ I replied.

Hours I moaned from the bed, burped, farted, and drank Heineken breakfasts.

‘What’s the score?’ she asked.

‘Ten, six,’ I said.

Later, she asked, ‘what’s the score?’

‘Ten, six,’ I said.

I thought it was the right thing to do. Everybody watches the golf. It was like watching golf for two entire days. Sometimes the ball rolled in the hole, other times it missed the hole.


Then she said,

‘Which category is this?’


‘Where is Prestorius?’

I snapped, sang, ‘EUUUROPE, EUUUROPE,’ waved the spotty blue towel around my head.

That really got her goat, and we scrapped on the rug. I grabbed her plastic pistol, and with one knee on chest, stuck the weapon into her mouth, backed off slowly, motioned,

‘Take a seat. Keep your hands where I can see them all,’ I said.

I am no fool, stood guard through the night and looks like victory is assured. She will sleep it off.