Combat Jack = Skeevy perv sicko freak

So, this was not a good weekend for your boy Combat Jack. Saturday nite, I decided I was going to hang out with my boys (no homo) and do some man style drinking. My beloved wife decided, while I was throwing some back, that she was going to find out why I had been spending so much time hunched over my laptop these past couple of months. Now mind you, up until this weekend, I never informed her that I had taken up blogging as a new hobby. Not that I was hiding it either, but I figured that when bol and I took this site to the next level, I would proudly disclose to her the fruits of my labor and she would beam as a loving wife and cook me a fine ass Chinese African American meal.

Not so. Saturday evening (or Sunday morning) I stumble home and she greets me with an acidic “Hi Combat Jack” welcome. Before I could even wrap my drunk mind around those words, she starts slinging shit at me about how I'm some sick skeevy perv, setting up mimosa dates with someone named “Mom”, hanging out with that sicko fuck Brian Peppers, having a jack fest over Vida Guerra's nude downloads then posting that her shots were “heaven”, having an e- affair with someone named “Whitegirl, along with all types of other “taken way out of context” rapid fire ass accusations.

Oh, did I mention she went absolutely nuclear and let me know clearly that we never had a “fucking shotgun wedding”. Trying to be quick on my feet and attempting to make lemonade out of lemons, I try stress to her the humor in my comments and point out that her man has happily discovered his inner writer and ask her what she thinks about my newfound skills. She effin goes nutso about this secret life I'm leading and even suggests that I am in some fine need of counselling (meanwhile, I'm thinking her hot ass is definitely begging for some mental coaching).

So, after sleeping on the couch, I wake up Sunday and realize that I am now living in the midst of a bloody war zone. Wifey has made it an effin point to make every waking second of my life a goddamned nightmare. For instance, I take a shower, get out the tub and realize that the love of my life has tactfully hidden all of the effin towels! I mean she has definitely gone off on some jihad mission-styled rampage. All weekend, she's venomously referring to me as “CJ” and although I'm loving my new nom de plume, hearing it come from her every other effin second makes me cringe. Shit, it's gotten so bad, my 8 year old son keeps asking me who the eff CJ is. I'm curious as to why she hasn't brought it up yet, but something tells me she's not too keen on my Combat Army of Bitches thing either. There's no way in hell I'm bringing that one up, but I'm confident she's got that topic loaded in the chamber and will fire that shit my way sometime soon.

Now in retrospect, I admire how Mrs. CJ has demonstrated to me how she suddenly developed extraordinary investigative skills. I once read somewhere that in order to create a harmonious living environment with your mate, you have to sometimes include them in your hobbies so as to not make them feel left out. That being said, I'm thinking about asking her to guest post on my behalf in order to express her side of all of this, but I'm thinking that that will NOT go over well with her anytime soon. In the meantime, re-enlisting in Dubya's army to eradicate the world of evil is looking like a mighty fine option. Keep you “posted.”