Do you and your woman have two children? Did you help her finish her education and now she earns more than you? Did she ever mention a sexy fellow at her office?
If the answers are yes, don’t read Sanka Price’s I Confess for September 10. You may have been horned.
This dame was living good with her man. Then a hunk came to work with her. Within six weeks he was thrashing it in his car during lunch break. Nor did she feel in any way ashamed until he told her she was a great “*****”. (Rhymes with “stew”. Similar too, you put in everything.)
“Whew!” you’re saying, “glad that’s not me! Poopsie and I only have one child.”
Well, don’t get cocky just yet. Sanka has to tell these stories in a way that his confessees won’t get recognized. Most likely he adjusts a few facts here and there. We journalists call it “taking creative liberties”. It could still be you.
Me, I wanted to tackle heavy topics today.
But, those stoopid Americans again! Imagine sending up a six-and-a-half-ton satellite with no plans for bringing it down. And it’s due to crash back to earth, probably today Friday, but they don’t know where.
The biggest chunk is 331 pounds, which is like that hot Jamaican heavy landing on your head.
Captain Sawyer would die a happy man!
Shame!
I keep exposing United States hypocrisy. In May Obama declared his support for a Palestinian state within pre-1967 borders.
Now the Palestinians want the UN to recognize such a state, the Americans plan to veto the application. Shame!
So I fully expect them to use that space junk to wipe me out. And hence today I’ve decided to do a final I Confess to Sanka Price . . . .
Sanka, I love playing the banjo. My wife knew this when we married. And in the early years, we played wild banjo night after night.
Then, suddenly, she said no more.
Ten, 15, 20 years, without plucking a note.
I can’t even recall the last time.
Sanka, I don’t complain. Ask anybody. Ask that girl at Williams Equipment I rented a pump from last weekend. I took a strap off the outlet hose to fit it into a hole, which is apparently a no-no at Williams Equipment. And it seemed at one point I might have to pay for the hose, the pump, or maybe the whole place.
But I didn’t complain. And not only because the girl was extra nice (also extra, double-extra, supertantalizingly pretty). Hi, Rochelle, if that’s the name!
Nor did I complain about not playing banjo. I married for better for worse. There’s nothing worse than no banjo, but so be it.
For, to tell the truth, I never were no star boy in that department. Not when Dominique Strauss-Kahn played three women’s banjoes the same weekend before tackling that maid. Or Silvio Berlusconi lined up 11 one night. “I only managed to do eight of them,” he lamented, “I couldn’t manage any more.”
The problem for me has always been that brief window of opportunity between foreplay and falling asleep. I never had the heart to wake a snoring lady.
That is all past history. Or so I thought.
Alas, that same Saturday Sun of September 10 carries a report where a French judge has ordered a man to pay his ex-wife BDS$27 155 for not playing her banjo often enough while they were married.
Said the judge: “By getting married, couples agree to sharing their life and this clearly implies they will play banjo with each other.”
Lord have mercy! Should my wife sue me, what proof would I have that she wouldn’t let me?
It is unlikely that two people getting married will have the same craving for playing the banjo. I suggest we make horning legal so that the horned party would get say, a Grantley, every time someone played his or her partner’s banjo. That way everybody would be satisfied.
Sanka Price could work out the details.
Meanwhile the US government says any satellite part falling on you remains its property. You can’t sell or keep it.
Please tell my wife that if I get killed.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email porkhoad@gmail.com
