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He says: “I would never cheat on you.”

According to these women telling your wife or girlfriend that you wouldn’t cheat her is one of the earliest signs that you’re a potential cheat. They also list I’m not sleeping with her as one of the sure fire signs that yes, your man is cheating on you. Can you say HOLY FUCKING SHIT! What planet are these women from? You goddamn head cases are constantly up our asses asking us if we’re cheating on you and now, according to this book when we tell you we aren’t it means we are?

Hey, I got one for you. Here’s the scenario… Your girlfriend stayed over at her friend’s house last night. It is now 4 AM and you just dragged your ass out of bed and are driving to work. The phone rings, and it’s your hysterically screaming girlfriend who wants to know who you had over the house while she was gone because she just found panties that aren’t hers next to the bed. You don’t know who’s panties they are because guess what, your girlfriend accidentally brought them back with her after her sleep over.

So tell me smart guys, what do I say to let her know I’m not cheating on her? If saying, “I’m not cheating on you” or “nobody was here last night” is one of your signs that I am cheating I have no idea what to say.

He says: “You need to see a psychiatrist.”

Okay, this one has to be a practical joke. Are you seriously saing that when you’be become comfortable enough around me that you no longer feel you have to hide your bipolar mood swings that suggesting you get psyciatric help and or medication means that I’m secretly planning to ruin your life by cheating on you?

He says: “I keep telling you to go to school.”

Translation: Stop whining to me that you’re not happy with your job and go make something of yourself. I’m tired of hearing it.

He says: “I keep telling you to get a job.”

Translation: Stop whining to me that:

• Your sister just bought a new house
• Your car is six years old
• You need new furniture

Un-meld your rear end from the couch you’ve been sitting on and help me pay the credit card bills you’ve been racking up. Maybe if your overactive imagination was kept busy with a paying job I wouldn’t have to fend off all these accusations of cheating.

He says: “What about me?”

As in, I’m paying most of our bills, I do the laundry, I take the trash out, I go out of my way to make meals that impress you, and tonight you’re giving me a load of shit? Tonight you’re letting me have it because we haven’t gone out on a “real date” in two months? You tell me I better start showing you some appreciation because your emotional needs aren’t being met and I finally have had enough of this bullshit and say “what about all that electricity the TV sucks up when you watch your Top Model marathons, don’t I get any appreciation for that?” Yep. It’s the sign of a cheater.

He says: Nothing.

It gets even better. Not only is everything we say evidence of cheating, but when we don’t say anything it’s being used against us. This is the exact reason you women are miserable. You nit pick over every little detail and turn every little thing into the evidence you’re looking for just to add some drama to your lives. Then your family gets involved and starts putting ideas into your head and then whammo! The next thing you know your husband has gotten so sick of your bitching, moaning, and accusations that he doesn’t even want to be around you any more. It’s too much work. It’s become emotionally draining, and all we want to do is relax at the end of the day and maybe get laid.

But now you’ve become such a pain in the ass that we’ve moved on and you’ve successfully turned us into a cheater.

Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, you really do need that psychiatric couseling?

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All beauty must die.

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When will this be over? When will this all end? I kept thinking, until, finally, it was! We all did our usual thing, the post-meeting extra cup of coffee, a donut or two, catch up on memos we didn’t receive and general office chit-chat. (Except that asshole Bob, always too good to care what anyone else thinks.) I got an eyeful of that one new secretary, Jane. As much as I could with her sitting next to me, anyway. Brad said he’d ask her along after but he didn’t. Forgot, he said, but I know he “forgot” on purpose, just as he likes to “forget” to do his fucking job sometimes though they pay him so well for it. Good luck ever getting him to do a friend a favor. All those girls are the same, anyhow, they only drink together so they can mutual reinforce each other’s sluttish behavior with the blue-collar losers and so-called artists they meet at clubs.

Brad and I knocked off to make happy hour at our usual place, and soon I found out why he was so quick to “forget”. He’s dating a fucking stripper! That gloating bastard was grinning ear to ear. “We’d all had quite a few, you know, and it was our last stop for the night. Hugh dared to go and talk to this one girl, real tall and leggy, over at the bar. Nooo way did he think I’d really do it, though! You know I’ve always had my luck with the ladies, but it was like magic, this time. I strolled up beside her, right, the model of affluent confidence, and when she turned to me, I gave her my best smile, and said to her, straight up, ‘Don’t worry, honey, I can afford you.’ Man, it was fucking smooth. Fortune favors the brave, and I tell you lady luck smiled on me that night. It’s nothing serious, of course, I mean I can’t be bringing a fucking girl like that home, those bitches are all crazy, but man, let me tell you some of the shit this girl will do in bed…”

By the time he was done bragging about his latest conquest, I was drunk, tired, and feeling fatter than ever. Brad took off saying he was supposed to pick up his new “fuck toy” when her shift ended. I stayed, had one more, then climbed into my car and came home. After I got out, I patted Beemer affectionately above her hood ornament as always, but then I paused, I don’t know why. My garage was clean and quiet, everything was quiet. Just the ticking of a cooling Bavarian engine. For a second I got the urge to just lay down on the smooth, cool concrete and look at things, but it passed and I came inside instead. Now I’m sitting here, and I feel like I’m missing out. Like… there’s things out there happening right now. Maybe what I need is a wife, or like what Brad has. Better, I’d put her through school, get her out of dancing, make her grateful to me, or I could get one of those mail-order brides, a nice Russian girl from Siberia. I’d seem like a prince to her. Every thing’s for sale these days, and why shouldn’t it be? I work hard for my money, don’t I?

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