Not the marrying kind

“I love sharing chores with you,” Carole Lombard as Transman’s fantasy spouse. “This makes me think of the Warren Zevon song, ‘Monkey Wash, Donkey Rinse.’ Not that I’m calling you a donkey or anything,” William Powell as the socially inept Transman.

Transman has a friend who is always telling him he should get remarried because his life would be easier. While Transman has made a case for why he’d be a great boyfriend, he would suck as a husband.

Transman can’t envision being married again. He can’t even imagine a relationship … not because he’s a transman so much, but more because he can’t imagine giving up his freedom. Besides, he has a talent for always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

The marriage would be over before they walked back outside and got pelted with birdseed or whatever people throw at married couples these days. Speaking of that ritual, Transman thinks all weddings should be mixed with a Mardi Gras parade and people should throw beads and candy–and if the gals want to flash the crowd, that’s okay, too. See? Transman is a childish, thrill-seeking, sexist pig.

Here is what would happen if Transman tied the knot again:

Things would start well with an intimate little ceremony in front of close family and friends.

“Please don’t smear my lipstick,” Mrs. Transman says. To which her new husband replies, “C’mon, it’s just a little peck. I’m wearing this stupid monkey suit to make you happy.”

The trouble would start on the Hawaiian honeymoon

“Would it kill you to smile for the camera?” Mrs. Transman says. “I’m trying not to sneeze. These flowers make my nose itch.” Transman replies while snuffling.

After a sun-and-sand-and-poi drenched week, the couple would return to their home and settle into domestic bliss … until one morning when Transman wakes up to find his cave has been redecorated.

“Where did my Barbecue Bob poster go?” Transman asks his blushing bride. “Oh, I got rid of that old rag and replaced it with this spiffy stuff from Pier 1 and World Market!”

That old adage, “You don’t really know someone until you live with them,” becomes truly evident one night when Mr. and Mrs. Transman reorganize his library to incorporate her books into the collection.

“I just loved the whole Twilight series! I loved it to bits! I loved it to pieces! I loved it to bits and pieces!” Mrs. Transman gushes. Transman offers a perfunctory smile, while judging her harshly.

The semi-happy couple would try to fit in with the neighbors, going to dinner parties and “family game night” at the Smythe-Jones residence. They would start out fine, but Transman would get himself in trouble.

First, he would zone out during the sing-along and get caught looking like he was ogling Mrs. Smythe-Jones.

“Watermelon-watermelon-watermelon,” Transman absentmindedly mouths like his third grade choir teacher had ordered him to do.

Then …

“Your tie is too short,” Transman’s wife says during a heated ping-pong match with the neighbors. “Who plays ping-pong in a tie? I’m just here to make you happy. I hate s*&t like this!” Transman says and immediately regrets it.

Life with the Transfamily would be difficult at times. Transman and Son 2 would try Mrs. Transman’s patience to no end. The straw that breaks the camel’s back is when the Transfellas start a country-ska band, The Muddtones, and practice their Johnny Cash-Prince Buster medley for three weeks straight.

“I can’t hear myself think!” Mrs. Transman shouts during band practice.

Mrs. Transman would try to talk to her husband about her concerns, but he would be too wrapped up in his dart gun cane  modification project to pay her his full attention.

“Are you even listening to me?” Mrs. Transman asks. “Hmm? Oh, yes, honey,” Transman responds; “do go on.”

Mrs. Transman would get fed up and pedal away, taking their beloved dachshund, Mr. Weeney with her.

“Come on, Mr. Weeney, we don’t need that stupid old Mr. Transman. Let him and his crazy children keep living like frat boys. Let’s go where we’ll be appreciated!”

To cope with the pain of Mrs. Transman leaving and taking Mr. Weeney, Transman would read to Son 2,  fix his bike, and get  a new dog.

“Transdaddy, I don’t think the princess told the prince to ‘go to H-E-double hockey sticks.’ “

“Just a little oil and it’s good to go! Then, I’ll pedal on down to the beach and see what’s shakin’.”

“What do you mean? Of course you’re not the rebound puppy! … have you ever dressed up as a dachshund … like for Halloween or anything?”

About these ads

33 responses to “Not the marrying kind

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,191 other followers

%d bloggers like this: