Real Men/Women of Genius #21

 

[We interrupt our previously posted serious survey to bring you this regularly scheduled joke. BTW, thanks to all who have already responded to that survey. You’ve given some excellent opinions!]

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we lift our goblet to you, Mrs. Ultra-Listserv-Posting Soon-To-Be-Divorced Public Announcer.

{Missus “caintcha jus’ heeeeeeear my hor-moans rage?”}

Sure, we feel your pain. But you insist upon the whole wide world feeling your pain. You’re wanting the wailing and gnashing of teeth to carry on in India, Timbuktu, Shaker Heights, and Outer Mongolia. You’re convinced HE “done ya wrong” and you are NOT gonna just sit there and take it anymore.

{Yooooooou should seeeeeee what he done to meeeeeeeeeee!}

You have already thrown your clueless hubby’s running–and all other–stuff out on the front lawn. You’ve changed the locks. You’ve stapled your “public service announcement” index cards to all the supermarket bulletin boards within a radius of three hundred miles. And now you believe you’re hurting HIM where you’re sure it will fracture his ass the worst: on HIS runners’ cyber forum with membership in the thousands, every one of whom is just waiting to be shocked by the infidelities you reveal.

{Thaaat dirrrrrrrrrrrrrrtyyyyyy bassssssssstuuuuuuuuurd!}

His “kind” is what you hate. Strong athletic men with eyes in their head who chase fit scantily-clad women through the woods all day. So what do you do? You join the listserv, embarrass your man publicly in the forum, then buy yourself a jogbra and short-shorts and enter the very next trail ultramarathon race.

{Oh, IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII’m gonna scratch hissssssssssssss eye-balls out!}

You don’t join the chess players’ list or become a “friend of the library.” It doesn’t ever occur to you that the type of mouse you want most won’t be found full of sweat and dirt. The man of *your* dreams must lurk in reading rooms, at Sunday afternoon bingo socials, or in commuter train stations wearing coke-bottle-bottom eyeglasses and sitting all by himself.

{Wherrrrrrrrrrrrre is myyyy seeeee-cret Walter Mitty???}

So pull that cork quickly out of your very chilly bottle of White Zinfandel, O Madame Defarge, and start up your knitting rehabilitation hobby, because it is likely you won’t ever be satisfied until every single non-blind hunk on the planet is either publicly guillotined, pilloried, or… castrated. So, who ya gonna call–out–THEN?

{Missus Ultra-Listserv-Posting Soon-To-Be-Divorced Public Announcer!}

White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don’t drink it ourselves; we’d rather guzzle beer.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Personally, I’d recommend joining the unisex quilting and embroidery lovers listserv myself.