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In a tragic but predictable turn of events, my wife has extended our long-standing No Touching Policy amid fears of what she calls “a global pandemic.”
The No Touching Policy was instated one month ago when I bought my wife tickets to Monday Night Raw for Valentine’s Day and made the fatal mistake of answering honestly about who I found attractive on the Bachelor. For future reference on navigating this trap door, use this comprehensive formula: Drop to the floor and convulse uncontrollably as if you’re having a seizure and hope that a trip to the emergency room and the electric shock from a defibrillator will distract her from the fact that you’d leave her for a 23-year-old fashion intern from Orange County.
Whatever you do, DO NOT answer with drool down your chin and your hand in your waistband. Trust.
Any small chance of cutting my sentence for Good Behavior thereafter was eliminated last week when I allowed my wife to use the internet on my phone to look up a porridge recipe. Three letters and Google autocomplete earned me a week on the couch in solitary confinement. Don’t make the same mistake I did: Go XXNX and bank she doesn’t go through an XXXTentacion music phase.
I woke up this morning, my seventh and final day on a couch fit for Kevin Hart, motivated to become the husband my vows promised. I texted her a few tender messages that my pride forbids me from revealing here and planned on disposing of the crumbled tissues that blanketed the living room floor.
Then, on the coffee table under an empty bottle of Colt 45, I spotted it.
No Touching policy will be extended indefinitely, citing coronavirus pandemic. Please take a shower and save some tissues for potential virus-related symptoms.
-Me
Well, shit.
If any of you guys want to watch NBA games the Big 10 Tournament Young Sheldon re-runs, hit me up. I got a few warm beers and a half bottle of Purell. Let’s get silly.