The Suburban Fantasy
My friend Bill moved to the suburbs in exchange for a clean house and clean sex, pure and cold as a hole in an ice sculpture. Of course, that's not fair to his wife. She'll call me bitter and jealous, and probably impotent besides. Maybe that's the case, but I don't see why a figment of Bill's imagination needs to turn on me like that.
In my lighter moments, I too indulge in a suburban fantasy. In my head, I move in with my blonde lawyer wife, who owns a cute house with a cute yard. She's sharp as a diamond blade and doesn't hesitate to mention my lack of earning prowess when I laugh at what the priest says in church, even when it's ridiculous to the point of humor, even when it's a parody of Christian love. We navigate social circles, always having the best manners. We grow so terribly awfully bored with each other that I do yard work for excitement until she takes me to the hospital when I cut off a finger, again. At the hospital she says "I love you" and strokes my hair while the doctor re-attaches. We have good health insurance. That's probably the best part of the fantasy.
Then one day, she goes to the grocery store (not the one where the brown people go -- in order to maintain our superficiality, we've had to channel all our natural passion into racism). There's the hiss of gas escaping into her empty house and then soon appears a trail of fire and a great ball of flame. Bricks fly for miles. Standing in the cul-de-sac, I laugh, and it's over.
If she visits your imagination, say hello.
---
In my lighter moments, I too indulge in a suburban fantasy. In my head, I move in with my blonde lawyer wife, who owns a cute house with a cute yard. She's sharp as a diamond blade and doesn't hesitate to mention my lack of earning prowess when I laugh at what the priest says in church, even when it's ridiculous to the point of humor, even when it's a parody of Christian love. We navigate social circles, always having the best manners. We grow so terribly awfully bored with each other that I do yard work for excitement until she takes me to the hospital when I cut off a finger, again. At the hospital she says "I love you" and strokes my hair while the doctor re-attaches. We have good health insurance. That's probably the best part of the fantasy.
Then one day, she goes to the grocery store (not the one where the brown people go -- in order to maintain our superficiality, we've had to channel all our natural passion into racism). There's the hiss of gas escaping into her empty house and then soon appears a trail of fire and a great ball of flame. Bricks fly for miles. Standing in the cul-de-sac, I laugh, and it's over.
If she visits your imagination, say hello.
---
posted by JMH | 7:25 PM
2 Comments:
oh dear.
that was brilliant.
the brilliant part involves the reader, me, trying to figure out what you are truly saying.
happy holidays, sir.
So that's where the hot blond lawyer came from. I saw her rollar skating and tried taking some pictures of her. But my camera was in fact a rubber chicken.
P.S....Reercong
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