We're All Damaged

Monday, March 16, 2009

The Case for Marriage: A Detailed Analysis with Research and Everything

Whenever my wife goes out of town, I make all kinds of big plans for myself—plans that involve reading, exercising and being a productive, contributing member of society. Somehow though, everything always goes dramatically wrong, and inevitably I wake up on the couch wearing one shoe, inexplicably sour and nuzzling an empty bucket of spicy chicken from KFC. When I open my eyes, I see my dog staring at me in disgust. The top of his head, for some reason, is stained with ketchup.

What has led me here? Why am I limping? And why am I now a mere shell of the wholesome, well-intentioned man of just three days ago? The answer can be summed up in two words: single friends.

When my wife was safely aboard her airplane late last week, I was chatting with my single friend, and I mentioned that I was on my own for the weekend.

“Really?” he said. “What have you got planned?”

“Oh, you know, I was thinking I’d maybe take a spin class, grab a chicken salad, read some Faulkner and go volunteer over at the homeless shelter.”

My single friend paused. They always pause. “Actually, I have a better idea. How about you come over to my place? We’ll drink grain alcohol until one of us starts hallucinating and/or bleeding internally. Then we’ll deep fry some Snickers bars for dinner, watch a sensationally violent movie and then hit up a cock fight in a dangerous part of town that doesn’t appear on any map.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “All of those things do sound pretty awesome.”

According to 30-second’s worth of research that I just did on the Internet, married men in America live, on average, about ten years longer than their unmarried friends. This is perhaps the least surprising information I’ve ever heard. Since getting married, I eat fruit. I no longer eat liquefied cheese. I read books and enjoy magazine articles about current events. I sleep eight hours a night and have far fewer night terrors. My blackouts have decreased significantly, and so has the number of times per month I find myself running from the police. When I take a deep breath, I no longer start coughing things up. And I can’t even remember the last time I burst into tears and then punched a stranger in the face.

Not to sound like an alarmist, but after this weekend I’ve come to a conclusion. If you’re a single man over the age of 25, you have about six months to live, depending on your specific brand of grain alcohol. My advice: drop whatever the hell you’re doing and immediately propose to whichever female you know who is least repulsed by your mere presence. Trust me, your life depends on it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife will be home in four hours and I have some straightening up to do. Does anyone know how to get rooster blood out of curtains?


  1. Quite possibly the most truthful thing I have ever heard.

  2. Ha... I actually painted a room in the house the last time my wife went away. But I've been on the other end too! Great blog.