the most irritating thing about my husband is--
I said, look, lumberjack,
either grow a beard, or shave--
cos this everlasting
three day stubble stuff
sucks dead donkey lips, dude.
I know I talk trash--
I know you'll scoff--
you'll cue the quizzical look, and ask,
"Why did you marry him, then?
What was it that happened,
that caused you to choose him
from among all choices,
from among all men?"
Well, I'll tell you.
Hell, I'll tell you the whole sorry thing.
There I was
pocketing a lipstick,
just as innocent as a spring breeze,
when they caught me and rolled my dainty fingertips
in black ink for fingerprints,
and hauled my happy ass before a judge.
I ask you, does that
You bet it does!
I was sent for counseling
to the aging, crumbling, crappy south wing
of a cruddy community hospital,
for the solving of my mental
panics and peccadilloes.
What do you think was the first thing I saw?
faded pictures on the wall?
He invited me to sit down,
so I did, cos the assclown had my paperwork,
and i really wanted to
put this behind me,
so I smiled quite benignly, and said,
"Lay it on me, Spike.
What d'you have in mind?"
"I'd love to get my hands on you,"
setting his clipboard across his knees.
I told him, "Keep dreaming, cowboy,"
and spat on the floor
like a Nawlins whore.
Do you want to know what he really meant?
No, you don't already know,
and I'm getting to that.
Deep in the basement of that crumbling,
crappy-ass south wing,
he stood before me
and with a flourish of professional pride,
proceeded to show me his thing.
No, not that thing.
Here, have another drink;
you're going to need it.
I said, "Whoa.
What in the name of Isis and Indiana Jones
It was a gadget, with a chair,
and a helmet made of glass;
it had electrodes, and dials, and a scary-looking switch.
He told me, "Sit your happy ass down,
and we'll get started now, Miss."
listen to me.
Next thing I know,
I was in 1843,
five-fingering candles, and dowels, and
all kinds of useless shit.
Pretty soon, they hauled my happy ass before a judge.
Some things never change.
Some man was fucking with my brain!
The jowly judge, who had hair in his ears,
said, "Hear me, young strumpet!"
Can you believe that?
He actually said that.
Anyway, he told me I could marry my doctor,
or, if I preferred,
rot in a rat-infested prison cell
at the Podunk Penitentiary For Women.
and I thought,
until the bailiff stuck his baton under my chin
and I was urged to hurry up
and make my decision.
"Honey!" I exclaimed.
(not being in full control of my brain)
and so we became man and wife
Holy fucking Christ in a prom dress!
I figured, keep smiling, girl--
baffle 'em with bullshit until you figure a way out
of this whole stupid mess.
Do you know what he should have done?
(besides shaving his stubble?)
Do you know what he should have tried
if he wanted to save
a whole lot of trouble?
He should have locked the door
back to the main floor
of the crappy, crumbling, shitty south wing,
and the time to which I am most accustomed,
back where a girl can find
a decent store with decent things.
But never mind.
See, I knew this guy.
Everybody knows a guy,
So, by the following Tuesday night,
he had thoroughly fucked with
my husband's stupid glass helmet,
to make it do my bidding
and to hopefully undo
our ersatz, antiquated wedding!
I went back down
and put on this ginormous, voluminous gown,
was quite a lot less
than was customary in 1843.
I told my husband, "You must be tired--
leave everything to me;
just sit right here and close your eyes--
a nice surprise."
Honey, I didn't waste any time.
I switched it on,
and like that, we were gone,
our happy asses jerked right quick
into the year two thousand and ninety-six.
Okay, so here comes the good part.
Cross my heart!
We landed in a land
where it sort of sucks to be a man--
they just fetch and carry
for Jane and Mary.
Not only can't men vote--
they can't marry!
Science has made enormous strides
bringing bouncing babies
to blushing brides.
It's too bad for the doctor;
pretty harsh, pretty tough.
I'm telling you, girlfriend,
I couldn't make this stuff up!
So I hid the key,
which I'd stolen long before--
you know the one,
to the first floor door
of the crappy, crumbling, mental health clinic place.
I'm afraid I'm mean.
I'm afraid I'm cruel;
I left the doctor in the future, living out his days.
Oh, and one thing more--
I made him shave!
for Kerry's "worldbuilding" challenge at Real Toads, and "breaking the rules" at Poetry Jam, hosted by my very own Sista Poet!!!