Ask blognigger: A Happy Marriage

Astute reader Deb K. writes,


Date: Thu, Jul 3, 2008 at 8:29 AM
Subject: marital advice bn style :^)
To: Blogngr

Good morning BN,

Quick question:
For some reason, I see you as being a great husband. I know you're high on the ladies of the new york city subway system, but I still can't shake the feeling that in the end, you've got this unshakable devotion to your wife and family.

-snip-

Can you offer any advice to two newlyweds? What's the secret to a long lasting, happy marriage?

-snip-

hugs,
Deb K.


Good question, Deb, thanks.

First of all, temptress, before we even get started, I have to summarily and unequivocally REJECT the so-called "hugs" you offer as a passively-romantic valediction. You see, I'm a married man, and therefore SWORN to reject any and all forms of physical contact / suggestion of contact whose effects would register a .001 or higher on a Penile Plethysmograph.

See, that's me trying to show you, via the Socratic method, how you need to live if you want to have a long and happy life with the person you've sworn to forsake all others for. Basically, you need to either stifle ALL human sexual urges you experience from now until you DIE, or you will have to give up your kids, half of everything you own, and move to Jersey.

I'm joking of course, in my typical minstrelly fashion, but let's all be on the same page that that's exactly the message that our society, our church, and our judgmental Oprahs have sent since the world went 'color' sometime about 1950.

Now, your hunch is correct, and I ain't shittin ya: I'm a great husband. My wife and kids are the most critical thing in the world to me - and not in an abstract Ward Cleaver type of way. I mean that they fill and monopolize the deepest tier of my reptilian brain - I perpetually hold their well-being as the single fuckin DIRECTIVE that guides my entire existence. I'm like a fucking bee in a hive: 45 degrees right. 45 units forward. protect hive. 45 degrees right. protect queen. honeydance. protect queen.

And I've never been happier. Really. I receive 99.99% of my happiness from my kids and my wife, especially now that the Yankees suck such a large cock. Without my wife and kids, I'd have topped myself long ago.

However, we've got a problem here: I've got these fuckin chemicals in my head, see? It's not my fuckin fault- it's god and jesus and Darwin- They put that shit up there. Read the subway girl post lest you forget. I have the fucking chemicals, and now, JUST LIKE I HAVE TO EAT, I have to stick my dick into new, fresh, unseen places and make it do push-ups until it throws up.

That's the curse. Do I want it that way, just because it's fun when it's doing push-ups? Nah. It's a hassle. I would probably take pills to stifle the urge if I could. It's a burden. But as burdens go, jesus it's one of the best.

So, we've got a problem. Getting rid of those chemicals properly is in direct contradiction to my wedding vows. And more importantly, getting rid of those chemicals properly can result in being admonished at a press conference by Oprah like Spitzer, poor bastard, giving up your kids, half your shit, and of course, moving to Jersey.

Now; what's a nigga to do? Guess what: I know the answer.

I had two formative childhood experiences that I want to share with you:

Story 1:
I used to sit in back of the hottest chick in the world in Spanish class in 1988. I mean hot. Blond chick for chrissakes – tanned, gorgeous legs – I used to sit and stare at the backs of her legs and ankles like I was delivering a Heaven's Gate recruitment pitch. I almost failed that goddamn class because I couldn't pay attention to anything but the back of her legs, her butt, her arms, week-old fading polish on her painted little fingernails... and then she had this move where she would brush her hair back, and I'd get a tiny little glimpse of her blond neck - tiny little downy hairs, and that shit would send me right to the 1st floor bathroom to go rub one out. Almost failed the goddamn class.

Anyway, through the psychotic magic of Warhol's 15 Minutes of Fame Postulate, in a psychotic anti-matter improbability-drive-induced turn of events, I was somehow able to end up DATING this girl. Black computer geek. Yes. (Sadly but expectedly, her father immediately commit suicide upon learning of our involvement)

The first time we kissed, I was 15 years old. I had been dreaming about her for so long, it was like I won the jesus cock lottery from god. We were making out at a party and she was touching me on the outside of my jeans, and I lasted 30 seconds. 80's blue jeans - THICK like jordache basics, son; 30 seconds.

Fast forward a year. I was 16 - I had banged her so many times, in so many different places: on the bed, on the floor, on the blanket by the door, I had sex more than I masturbated - and I don't think that's ever happened to me again in the next 20 years of my life. I had had sex with her so many times, that I didn't look forward to it anymore. Quite the opposite; It became a chore that I had to fulfill to keep her happy so that I wouldn't be subjected to the high-school equivalent of Oprah / Give up Kids / Give Up Stuff / Jersey sentence - which is basically her going bang the captain of the football team while I cried and played with Hypercard.

So there was this seminal moment of my life where we were at her house, and her mom was lecturing us while the family dog ran around the den. I looked up at her, looked at my girlfriend, and as the time for forced, impending evening sex approached, I remember thinking "you know, I'd rather have sex with your mom than you, because at least that would be somewhat fresh and different."

Moral of formative experience #1: I realized (at a pretty damn young age!) that no matter how much initial attraction, love, sexual attraction you have for someone, it will ultimately fade into the doldrums of ordinariness.

in other words, as a great writer used to say to me, "No matter how hot that chick is, there's some guy that's tired of fuckin 'er."

Period. It will happen every time, forever - maybe some guys don't have as much of the chemicals as I do - in that case, god bless ya ya lucky fucks. But for me, all that bullshit about working on your sex life, getting a fuckin kama-sutra book, or some wacky oil, or dressing your wife up like a cop or sticking a sombrero on her head and pretending she's border patrol - it's just that: bullshit. My wife in a fucking piñata is still my wife and I don't wanna fuck it.

[Whoa - WTF?! What happens when your wife reads this? She won't. Ever. HOSTS FILE MANIPULATION, son. She'll never read blognigger again - I have her redirected to a local cache of the site. If you have future tech support questions, please email. Now: let honesty reign.]

Story 2:
b) My father, a successful dentist on central park west, was forced to bang my mother fifteen million times over the 20 year period that they were married. He stifled his chemical urges for so long that it built up inside him like the uncontainable panic of drowning. About to explode, he finally decided that if he didn't leave our family in order to start banging 20-year-olld white-chicks, he would die. THIS is what happens if you stifle the chemicals for 20 years. Either you get cancer, you get divorced, or both.

Fast forward 20 years. My dad is divorced AGAIN, not because of the chemicals, but because something very predictable happened: He fucked hot white 20 year olds until he found one he fell in "love" with (ha!) married her too, and like magic, she became ordinary and annoying and boring and everything that his first wife was. Finally, in an illogical fit of anger at god and the chemicals, he gave her half of everything he owned like some satanic recursive subtractor virus.

MY DAD DIED FOR OUR SINS LIKE JESUS - He was the guinea pig, and now we all know what NEVER to do. If you GET DIVORCED FOR PUSSY, then if you are LUCKY, the way my dad was, you will just end up in AS miserable a situation, just as bored of what was once new pussy. YOU CANNOT FOOL GOD OR THE CHEMICALS WITH YOUR SILLY RE-ALIGNMENTS.

NOW... again, I ask you: what's a nigga to do? Remember, I KNOW THE SOLUTION. I don't know all that much shit, but I know the goddamn secret to this: I've made it one of the most important points of my life to discover this secret, and I did it BEFORE getting married so that my wife, my kids, and my shit would always be safe.

Before I just tell you the solution however, let's ask a few questions about the solution:

a) Is the SOLUTION what Will Smith and Jada have just announced to the internest? Having an open marriage?

Doesn't sound bad right? Right? Get to bang whoever you want? all the time? ok? sounds ok? right? WRONG DUMBASS, what about your wife being allowed to fuck mexicans? Still think an open marriage is a good idea, IDIOT? Say what's up the the SENEGALESE brother that your tiny jewish bride is going to be squatting over WHENEVER SHE FEELS LIKE IT.

nga please.

That ain't the goddamn solution.

The solution is this:

(TO BE CONTINUED...)