Sunday, January 24, 2010

Letters To The Editor

You can perhaps imagine my surprise when I woke up and saw my wife's words --or at least words attributed to her-- right there on the front page of the Daily Banner: "God only knows what Richard was thinking. I'm as shocked as anyone and want to apologize to the entire community."

You do that, Veronica. Put on a black shawl and drag yourself up and down every block of this jerkwater shithole; hang your head on every doorstep and apologize for the fact that your husband of 19 years took a piss in his own fucking driveway. I'm sure that will bring a world of comfort to all those poor suffering folks who are at this very moment cowering behind their locked doors, terrified by the news that a man, a "respected optometrist," has taken a piss in his driveway, "in broad daylight, and in full view of the entire neighborhood."

I've no doubt that's something you'd love to believe, Ronnie, that the eyes of the "entire neighborhood" are riveted on our house 24-7, endlessly fascinated by our every movement. Problem is, we don't live in a "neighborhood"; we live in a fucking suburban development, and people who live in the suburbs should just expect that once in a while they're going to see a man taking a piss in his own driveway.

Just for the hell of it, I'll remind you, Ronnie, that it was 7:45 in the morning, and like every other Tuesday morning of my life you and the girls were camped out in the bathrooms, preparing yourselves for your daily appearance before the prying eyes of the "neighborhood." I bang and curse, but it does no good, and so when I finally stumbled out to the driveway for the morning paper I paused and took a piss. I was, I'll grant you, at least technically in the driveway, but I was wearing a bathrobe, slippers, and boxers, and I very deliberately turned my back and pissed into the bushes next to the porch.

If Pam Ryman called the police every time I took a piss on my own property then you'd really have something to cry about, Ronnie, because I've got news for you: I've pissed off the deck. I've pissed right off the front porch. I've pissed in the front and back yards. I've marked my goddamn territory and have experienced something approaching genuine pleasure on every occasion. If Duane Ryman can claim to his wife with a straight face that he's never pissed in his own yard he's not only the fop I imagine him to be but a stinking, pussy-whipped liar to boot.


  1. Once I found a large burrito on my enclosed front porch, which (when I sent my husband out to poke at it with his toe), turned out to be a very small man wrapped in a big blanket. I couldn't bear to kick him into the street, but wasn't willing to let him in my house, so there he stayed for what turned into half a year. As we primarily use our back door, he mostly went unnoticed and I must admit that other than offering the occasional shower or leftovers, his needs didn't concern me much. Thus I failed to consider how he was to relieve himself. That is, until one sultry afternoon when it hadn't rained in some time and I was met with the unmistakable stench of urine as I passed the bushes outside our front door. As our squatter closely resembled my one true love, to this day I wonder how many of our neighbors caught a glimpse of his bush business and what they may have assumed to be my husband's strange proclivities.

  2. I pray Kenny S. has emptied his tank, along with our dogs, more than once in our yard. I do NOT want him to be "pussy-whipped" for not doing so.