Of Boots and Dorks
Before I try to escape the bonds of marriage which I know I will be forced to be in (sooner or later), I’ll make sure I have two houses built already: one specifically made for couples—an effective front, and another for me to find sanctuary whenever my would-be wife will have her period, or if she suddenly feels the urge to kill me with a kitchen knife after I poke fun at her horrible cooking. This alternative dwelling of mine will be kept secret from the world and away from the prying eyes of the general public—my friends included (who I am sure will find it hard to resist playing pranks on me). Of course, this second house will be filled with thousands of books from every possible genre there is and will be; however, don’t think I will marry my books instead if I don’t get tied up in an eternal hellish relationship with a girl, because that would be just weird and plain crazy. Or if I do get married, I’ll tell her that I have sex with my books, and that, I am sure, will freak her out and hopefully make her file a divorce.
And my children? I will not tell them about my secret hiding place, but if I feel extra kind I may give them some of my books (the cheap paperback ones). I will not force them to go to sleep at night and will allow them to do whatever the hell they want as long as they leave me at peace. They will have to be able to read and write at the age of three, learn proper grammar at age five, and must be able to spell ‘rendezvous’ and ‘psychology’ during their first year in school without even batting an eye. They will know when to talk back to their teachers, and break rules at their convenience. I will not have them dancing like an idiot inside the house, and will ground them if they choose to quote Shakespeare, or recite ‘Trees’ by Joyce Kilmer. They will be excellent storytellers and liars and will be the best fictionists of their generation. I will not encourage them to write poetry, but if they fall to that point of no return wherein they try to describe almost everything in words unutterable, I will not save them, and most probably leave them to rot thinking of other ways to express that one word, the bane of all poets: ‘Love’. And even in their grief I will not share my chocolates.
And if one day I wake up in the middle of the night and hear my teenage son’s pen losing its ink to countless, worthless attempts on writing a love letter, along with his whispered curses at God and his silent litanies on how he is incapable of expressing his fleeting emotions into inked sentences of endearment...
- Or if I walk in the hallway and find my daughter’s newly-bought books lying on the floor, with their pages torn and full of scribbles and side-comments on how the story should’ve turned out...
- Or I see my youngest ripping off the pages of a Twilight book and crying at the sight of a sparkling vampire...
- I will not worry about it and will happily go back to my own devices with a feeling of utmost pride, thinking: Ah, it must run in the family.
And if I don’t get married at all, and most of I wrote here become no more than a nightmare I’d rather not have in this lifetime, then I must be the luckiest boy in the world. I will write a book on how I triumphed over society’s evil expectations and about my trip around the world looking for the perfect things to kill, mutilate, and obliterate boredom, and then I’ll die happy and carefree and ready to meet whoever bastard claims to be the almighty Creator. And then live on for the next life.
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This is a parody of
Of Books and Words by Ashley Saludes
Before I try to escape the bonds of marriage which I know I will be forced to be in (sooner or later), I’ll make sure I have two houses built already: one specifically made for couples—an effective front, and another for me to find sanctuary whenever my would-be wife will have her period, or if she suddenly feels the urge to kill me with a kitchen knife after I poke fun at her horrible cooking. This alternative dwelling of mine will be kept secret from the world and away from the prying eyes of the general public—my friends included (who I am sure will find it hard to resist playing pranks on me). Of course, this second house will be filled with thousands of books from every possible genre there is and will be; however, don’t think I will marry my books instead if I don’t get tied up in an eternal hellish relationship with a girl, because that would be just weird and plain crazy. Or if I do get married, I’ll tell her that I have sex with my books, and that, I am sure, will freak her out and hopefully make her file a divorce.
And my children? I will not tell them about my secret hiding place, but if I feel extra kind I may give them some of my books (the cheap paperback ones). I will not force them to go to sleep at night and will allow them to do whatever the hell they want as long as they leave me at peace. They will have to be able to read and write at the age of three, learn proper grammar at age five, and must be able to spell ‘rendezvous’ and ‘psychology’ during their first year in school without even batting an eye. They will know when to talk back to their teachers, and break rules at their convenience. I will not have them dancing like an idiot inside the house, and will ground them if they choose to quote Shakespeare, or recite ‘Trees’ by Joyce Kilmer. They will be excellent storytellers and liars and will be the best fictionists of their generation. I will not encourage them to write poetry, but if they fall to that point of no return wherein they try to describe almost everything in words unutterable, I will not save them, and most probably leave them to rot thinking of other ways to express that one word, the bane of all poets: ‘Love’. And even in their grief I will not share my chocolates.
And if one day I wake up in the middle of the night and hear my teenage son’s pen losing its ink to countless, worthless attempts on writing a love letter, along with his whispered curses at God and his silent litanies on how he is incapable of expressing his fleeting emotions into inked sentences of endearment...
- Or if I walk in the hallway and find my daughter’s newly-bought books lying on the floor, with their pages torn and full of scribbles and side-comments on how the story should’ve turned out...
- Or I see my youngest ripping off the pages of a Twilight book and crying at the sight of a sparkling vampire...
- I will not worry about it and will happily go back to my own devices with a feeling of utmost pride, thinking: Ah, it must run in the family.
And if I don’t get married at all, and most of I wrote here become no more than a nightmare I’d rather not have in this lifetime, then I must be the luckiest boy in the world. I will write a book on how I triumphed over society’s evil expectations and about my trip around the world looking for the perfect things to kill, mutilate, and obliterate boredom, and then I’ll die happy and carefree and ready to meet whoever bastard claims to be the almighty Creator. And then live on for the next life.
---
This is a parody of
Of Books and Words by Ashley Saludes
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