The following is my wife's response to my June 26 column.
As most of you know, for the last decade or so, my husband has been using this column to talk shit about me and our marriage. I have tolerated it over the years, but his last column was the final straw, so this week, I'm hijacking it.
As you've probably realized, when it comes to stories about our home life, Ed's been running fast and loose with the facts, so it's time for me to turn the tables. At first he rejected the idea, but when I reminded him who it is that owns the real vagina in this family (not the fake one he hides in his file cabinet), he had no choice but to allow it. And in case you have any doubts, it really is me writing this column. My name is W., and I'm here to set the record straight.
In his last piece, "My wife refuses to obey our marital rules," he got all bent out of shape because I wouldn't "fetch" a soda for him while he was sprawled on his recliner. Well, after reading that column, I've since paced out how far the refrigerator is from his "Battlestar Reclinica." Anyone want to take a guess? It's three steps, which should tell you everything you need to know about who the asshole was in that argument.
In April 17's "The last bastion of my manhood," Ed went on a tirade about how he no longer has a say in our marriage. Those who know Ed had themselves a good chuckle over that one. Anyone who's ever heard his bellowing, suffered his combative rants or been bludgeoned by his relentless obsession for winning arguments knows quite well that he's no victim.
For those who don't know him, trust me—it's like being married to a disgruntled bulldozer. Were you to hear him snore, you'd know what I'm talking about. There's no way a man who snores like that could ever be a victim. It sounds like he's chainsawing a live grizzly in half. I've since learned how to tolerate the sound, but God help anybody else who has to sleep within 100 yards of him. This is all well-documented and not the least bit exaggerated. Ask Kevin Hellman, the publisher of CityBeat, what it's like sleeping in the same hotel room with Ed, and he'll tell you, as his cold black eyes gaze vacantly into the distance, "It was a long and terrible night that I spent in the valley of the shadow of the great vibrating beast."
Ed claims to have hearing damage. He loves to tell the story about how he got hit in the ear by a line drive during a softball game, and how his eardrum exploded, and his cochlear nerve was blown out and all the pus and blood and blah blah blah— stick a Q-tip in it already.
Consequently, everything he does is loud. The neighbors hate us because the TV or stereo is always blaring, his ringtone goes to 11 and he yells into the phone like he's receiving mortar fire in a combat zone. Funny thing about his hearing, though: If I ask him to clean the kitchen, he won't hear that. But I could whisper the word "blowjob" from behind a closed door with a vacuum cleaner running, and he'll come bursting into the room, saying, "Did you call?"
Ed's idea of helping me get ready to host a barbecue is by making a playlist. I'll be busting my ass shopping, cooking and cleaning, and he'll spend three hours putting songs into an iPod folder, half of which will be Warren Zevon B-sides and the other half one-hit wonders from the '70s. And I tell you now, you do not know embarrassment until you witness your husband dancing around the Baggo boards to "Afternoon Delight" on the Fourth of July.
The man is 51 years old, and he's still addicted to video games. When I ask him to take care of something for me while he's playing Black Ops he'll shout, "Not now honey! My team needs me!"
I once walked by his office when he was playing MLB 2012. He was screaming into his headset at his opponent, calling him a "cheating scumbag who has no game" and yelling, "I'm going to chop you into little meat cubes if you don't shut up." When Ed finally emerged from the game room, I asked who he was arguing with, and he told me it was "Johnny," our 12-year-old nephew with a learning disability.
One time he wrote a column about me being a bad driver. That's a doozy. I have never seen a person miss more exits than my husband. He'll be driving down the freeway ranting about why it's a travesty that the Starland Vocal Band isn't in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame while I wave goodbye to the exit we were supposed to take. After I tell him we missed the exit, he'll turn around and head back while ranting about how the crappy freeway signage and, you guessed it, pass the exit again!
What else, what else—oh yes: He can't fold laundry. And I don't mean just T-shirts and jeans; I'm talking about towels! You know: flat, rectangular towels. He just rolls them into a ball and stuffs them in the linen closet. I tell him, "Honey, it's a square! All you have to do is make the square smaller," but he just stands there, scratching his head like a teenage boy seeing a tampon for the first time.
All that said, I love the obnoxious blowhard. And now that I've had my say, I'm happy to let him continue writing misleading columns about our personal life. So long as you remember that he's entirely full of shit. Of course, he will likely tell you that I'm the one who is full of shit, but you and I both know who's telling the truth. Thanks for letting me set the record straight.
Sincerely, W. Decker, Xbox widow
Write to email@example.com and firstname.lastname@example.org. Edwin Decker blogs at www.edwindecker.com. Follow him on Twitter @edwindecker or find him on Facebook.
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