(I hate to be a stereotypical bastard… no, wait, I happen to be a stereotypical bastard…)
I have a pretty good reason to not be married. I figure that 61% of marry-able women will eventually evolve into the one monster capable of defeating Godzilla. Frizzy hair, house dress made from curtain textiles, big beady earrings, colossal triceps, tree-trunk legs, and the ability to stand there with their hands on their hips, talking in a fast, high-pitched rant.
I am, of course, talking about the housewife.
You know you married the wrong girl when you’re satsat-ized on a hot Sunday afternoon. Take the jeepney driver awhile ago, who had to drive his passengers and stand the stream of admonitions from his wife, who was riding alongside him out front. Or that woman next door, who has been ranting for the better part of 30 minutes about heaven-knows-what.
“Tinatalakan mo na naman ako,” the man says, shy that his manhood is literally being crucified in public.
“Hindi kita tinatalakan alam mo namang nagpapaliwanag ako susme naman kung umuwi ka lang sana nang maaga kagabi at hindi inuwian yung kerida mo di sana nakapagpamanicure pa ako kanina ano ba naman yan magkano lang sweldo mo maghanap ka naman ng ibang trabaho kesyo drayber ka lang ng jeep sige na alam mo naman kailangan ko pang bayaran yung utang nating sabon sa tindahan at bakit aalis ka na naman alam mo namang may lakad pa ako at magpapakulot pa ako ng buhok…”
Ah, yes, married life.