An open letter...

I'd like to take the opportunity to thank some very special people in the world: Bitchy Wives.


Your unyielding cuntiness has made my life a little easier, and you have my utmost gratitude. Let me explain:


It all starts when you meet your future husband. He's smart, cute in a dorky way and never seems to look at other women (well, not 3-dimensional women anyway). He treats you well, has a good work ethic and seems to want to settle down. He's pretty great in every way... except that pesky comic book/action figure/anime/video game/cult DVD collection that seems to take up his garage/room in his apartment/section of his parents' basement.


You ignore the collection(s) because hey, you're only dating. It's not like you guys live together and you have to look at that vintage Millenium Falcon every day, right?


But then, things get more serious. Maybe a couple years goes by and you decide you guys should move in together. You can only afford a one bedroom apartment, but you have to get two. One room for your sweet, sweet lovemaking and another for the boxes upon boxes of collectibles the Mister has.


"OK", you think, "It's not like we're MARRIED. I can overlook all this stuff."


But then you do get married.


And the hammer drops.


"It's me or the stuff."


Naturally, you win.


The poor schlub brings his collection(s) in to my husband. Tears in his eyes, he tells Jim the oh-so-familiar story of woe before walking out with a fraction of the cash he shelled out over the years to collect all that stuff. Unfortunately, Overstreet doesn't factor sentimental value into the going rate of that run of Spawn the Mister meticulously bagged and boarded 18 years ago.


A few years go by and things don't work out so well. If you ask me, the writing was on the wall the second you asked him to get rid of his stuff, but that's neither here nor there.


After you split up, after you've stripped the poor knucklehead of his toys for entrance into your favor, Jim gets another visit. This visit ends on a much much happier note--for him AND for Jim.


And, most importantly, for me.


Thanks to you, Bitch Wife, I've got a whole mess o' bills paid off.


You didn't think that Spiderman obsession vacated his brain the minute the vows were spoken, did you?


My eternal gratitude to all the Bitch Wives, the "grownups", the "ultimatum givers" and the Suburban Upwardly Mobile Haters Club.

I thank you. My husband thanks you. My bank account thanks you.

Sincerely,
Bacon Lady