Dear First Lady Michelle Obama,
Today I woke up and went through a tragic and routine ordeal: I bashed myself in the head with a hammer.
I got out of bed, walked down to my closet, pulled out my tool box, produced a 12-ounce carpenter’s hammer, and wacked myself in the eyebrow with it forcefully. I fell down, blood poured everywhere. After a few minutes of seeing stars the bleeding stopped, and I was able to bandage myself up and head to work. But the sad thing is, Mrs. Obama: that is the third time this month that I’ve beaten myself in the head with a hammer.
Cross-cultural love can be a tricky thing. It can be torrid, steamy, passion-filled extravaganza between two people whose ethnic and cultural differences strangely beckon them to know each other in the most intimate ways. They also can be quite frustrating and in the end, can fail as simply and sadly as any other relationship.
So I, on this day, must forlornly report that things between my Muslim girlfriend and I just haven’t been the same since her family stoned her to death two weeks ago.
Yes, Fatimah and I just haven’t been the same since then. I’ve tried taking her out to the movies and restaurants, even came over her college dorm room to make her some hummus-flavored Ramen. But since last month when her father, mother and older brother (originally from Saudi Arabia) found out she was seeing me, an Irish Catholic, and not the Saudi Wahhabist they wanted her with, and came over to her college dorm room and “talked some sense” into her with a couple bricks and aluminum pipe, I think she and I may be in a bit of some trouble.
“Mommy, what’s a ‘human centipede’?”
“Mommy, why does that man want to surgically attached people’s mouths to…?”
Children can be a treasure trove of questions, can’t they? They gaze around and wonder what this big scary “world” is all about, and leave you to explain it to them. And sometimes their questions can be uncomfortable. This is why, as a parent and a child psychiatrist, I suggest communing with your child before taking them to see the new marvelous feat of cinematic mastery now playing in independent film theatres nationwide. Yes, you guessed it, I’m talking about “Human Centipede II.”
To my absolute shithead, drunk, no-good piece of unemployed, slimy human waste that I call a ‘husband’:
Baby, I know we haven’t slept together in six months. When I’m not staying with my sister we don’t even sleep in the same room. You haven’t been employed since punching out your old boss last October, and you haven’t legally driven since your fifth D.U.I.
We hardly speak anymore without fighting. You don’t support me as I obtain my thirteenth associate’s degree from community college. We only talk to make sure who is dropping the kids off at daycare or my parents’ house, and even then we never smile at each other or nothing.
We ignore our anniversary, birthdays and holidays. We haven’t said a kind word to each other since being in front of that counselor lady a year ago. Just admit it, Randy, our marriage is in shambles! It’s ruined! Five years of marriage, three children, and nothing to show for any of it.
But I have the solution: I think we can solve all of our problems if we just have three morekids. Maybe not like triplets, but no less than one immediately after the other. Let’s make sure that I get pregnant as soon as I can after each kid is born. That is the only way we can save our marriage, Randy.