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| Topic: Not who does the dishes, How? | |
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You guys are all wrong and all of you waste too much water. Put the dishes on the floor...let the dogs lick them clean then put em up for the next time your relatives visit. hehehehehe You gotta admit...it is a solid plan that saves water. :) Yep i could go along with that.. sadly we don;t have a dog, so it will have to be the dishwasher. but really If someone wanted to do them a different way than I did them, then they can do my dishes for me, cause i hate washing up. No dogs... keep a pet crock, or dangaroo, or hyena (they like leftovers the best), a school of vultures or a panful of agrarian insurance lawyers. I simply do NOT accept your excuse, young lady. |
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Edited by
wux
on
Mon 04/09/12 09:55 PM
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My grandmother, recenty passed, loved to tell of her 'dishes' escapade on her honeymoon with my strong-willed grandfather. They were in a condo, she had made a candle-lit dinner, all was perfect, their very first meal together. When they had finished, my grandmother got up to clear the dishes. "Would you like to help?" she asked him. "Sure" he says. He goes into the kitchen where everything was sitting on the counter, and with one fell swoop, pushes EVERYthing onto the floor, dishes crashing, glass breaking, food flying. "Don't ask me that ever again" he said as he walked out. He was a hoot. And she never asked again :-) They were married about 50 years. What an olde quainte story. Your grandmother was traumatized for life in one fell swoop (literally) and she did your grandfather's bidding from then on. Poor thing, she had noone to turn to for help. Her mother told her not to come back to her if she can't stand that scroundelous rigger-baron rouge; the priests always sided with the guys; police would have laughed at her if she went to them with a complaint of emotional abuse and spiritual neglect. In those days police would not move on a report of physical domestic violence, unless death played a walk-on part in the incident. Of course they had stayed together for fifty years. Why would he leave her? Everyone likes a nice little cushy punch-bag, who brings dinner, cooks the house, cleans the children, feeds the cows, etc., while the guy reads the paper and makes sparkling love to her at night. And why would she want to leave him? Her ability to rationalize the cognitive dissonance of being stuck in a marriage with an obnoxious and impossibly volatile boor, who can only be a "strong man, with morals and high standards" when he has some physically weaker person to bully, made her love him even more. ("He is so strong!!") ("He is so romantic!!") ("He is so resilient!!") ("He is a real beater and shaker!! Every five-year-old one-legged kid on the street who has vision problems respects him!!") Frankly, the kind of man that your grandfather was, or is, makes me wanna bring up dinner and the debate on death penalty. This old grampa of yours and his kind are the very reason I can't meekly feel up a woman on a crowded subway car. You see, without him, the suffragette movement would never have got off the ground. I know his kind, I am the same way, although I have a longer fuse. I purposely stayed away from marriage, because I loved my would-be wife so very dearly. I know my limit, I know my weaknesses, I know I am an azzole, and I knew that all along. That is why I really, but really, hate the nice(*) guy type that your grampa was / is. But at least you got born, which is a good thing, and you couldn't have achieved this personal best, nor your mother, without some input (literally) by your ye olde quainte kinde grandfathere, then and there, when and where your family anecdote took place. (*) Euphemism, to not violate the PG-13 spirit of the website. |
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