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).