If Women Were Like Men
What a beautiful life it would be
I come home after a tough day at work and see that she’s washed the car again. It’s always clean, shiny, unlike the garage or the inside of the house. I take a deep breath and walk in. It’s still light, but the curtains are drawn and there she is, wine in hand watching the game. “Hi honey, I’m home”, I shout and am greeted by a belch. “Hey sexy, how’s your day been?”. I start to tell her but she screams at the TV: “F**king ref, are you blind, the c*nt was offside!!”.
I sigh and make my way to the kitchen.
The inside of the fridge looks like a junkie’s: two and a half beers, leftover pizza and half a pint of milk that I believe has squatters’ rights by now, it’s been there that long.
I grab a beer and peer at the pile of dirty dishes and the wooden spoon that’s been spot-welded to the saucepan. The floor is sticky, the rubbish bin overflowing and the dog looks pissed. Actually, he always looks pissed, but I darn’t touch it, it’s my wife’s pride and joy and she treats it better than she does me. She prefers to go for walks alone with it, meeting up with her girly friends to admire its balls. “Whoa Jen, that’s what I call pair of b*llocks”, they’ll say.
I know that conversation is pointless until the game’s over, so I go upstairs to change and come…
