Years ago my wife ran off with a trampoline artist. Not a trapeze artist, mind you, this guy jumped on a trampoline while he yelled. Calling it an art was my wife’s way of somehow lessening the stupidity of her romantic choices.
When he died in a holiday BBQ accident she came running back to me, like I knew she would, so I shut the door at just the right moment and sent her into unconsciousness. She was passed out in the front lawn for about five minutes before she began to beg for my love. Well, technically, she was asking for the return of her personal effects, but I could read between the lines. I just found it hard to believe she’d want her underwear back after I had already worn them to my job on the oil rig.