SomaCow

The government should not be involved in your personal life.  Period.  Marriage should not even be a religious thing.  In early Christianity, marriage was not a church thing.  It was a personal moment.  No ceremony.  Just you talking to the one you wanted to marry and say, “I marry you.”

DONE.

Then along came lawyers.  They needed a place to register who was married to whom.  The only folks that could write were in the Church, so, the Church was the record holder.

It wasn’t until the 1500’s that marriage and church/state became tied hand in hand.  The Roman Catholic Church and the Pope slapped a definition and law onto marriage.  A Catholic marriage had to be done by a “qualified” person with two qualified witnesses.  If those people were not at the wedding, the marriage didn’t count.

On the other side of the coin, the Protestants started giving the state the same official place as the priests.  So a protestant marriage was sanctioned by the state.  It was John Calvin and the Protestants that required both the Church and the State to recognize the marriage.

All of the bullshit about marriage as an institution is re-donky-less.

The idea, or the Raging Christians’ idea of what marriage is, is less than 400 years old.

Yes, people should be able to get married.  The same way they did it in the long, long ago.

If they feel compelled, go to the Church and get the blessing.  As for the state, file paperwork.  A will, a power of attorney, and a statement of shared household assets.

The tax laws could be adjusted to include “house hold” instead of dealing with spousal issues.

The divorce laws have brought things to such a level that none of the real shit matters.  “He cheated”… so fucking what, in the state of Florida, it is not grounds for divorce.  “He abused me”… those are not grounds for divorce in Florida.  “We just don’t get along”… BINGO, we have grounds for a divorce.

Under the Mickey Marriage Act of 2010, churches are still free to impose their will on their congregation.  Don’t like the church’s rules, leave the church.  But each church can define what “marriage” is in their church for their flock.

Any two people can get married.  All they do is look at each other and say, “I marry you”.  Done!  You are married.  But in the Mickey Marriage Act of 2010, marriage would be as meaningless as it is today.  We would just remove the legal ramifications of not being able to put up with someone’s shit any more.

Also under the MMA2kX, we would have the Household Alignment Amendment.  This would be a packet of paperwork that two or more people can enter to give each other right regarding personal issues.  This is open to roommates, bff’s, heteros, homos, … no dogs, no cats, and don’t even ask about the pony.

The PoP would contain a will for each person.  The will of each person would state emphatically how their assets will be divided.  The PoP Will must state the person’s wishes about life support and Resuscitation.

The PoP will include a tax form for Household Alignment.  The HA-Tax form will designate one person as the Head of the Household and allow all the parties in the Household to file a single tax return.

The PoP will include a MMA2kX-PoP stipulation sheet.  The SS will be list of your personal stipulations for the contract.  This is a tailor made list.  If you put that she cannot have sex with anyone else, then she is in breech of contract is she fucks someone else.  It is implicitly, clearly, without fuzzy language, laid out… your personal rules for being entered into a PoP contract with another person.

The PoP SS can be as restrictive or as loose as you wish it to be.

The problem with all of this… no one is that fucking open minded.

This past Saturday, I had the most beautiful dream. There I was, the sole judge of the prestigious “Miss Bacon Universe and Oral Sex Skills Pageant”. It was time for the talent competition, and my loose-fitting, velcro judge’s shorts were already askew with anticipation. When suddenly, without any warning or foreplay…

…I was awakened from my idyllic vision by that sound that every married man has come to dread: the crisp rustle of parchment as my wife unfurled her “Spring Cleaning Chores” scroll that she had painstakingly compiled all winter while I was snoring in my cave accumulating body fat and trying not to expend a calorie.

She was already dressed in her combat fatigues as I groggily pulled on my sweatpants, the sweet smell of sizzling pork and smeared lipstick from my dream now just a mournful memory.

I have to give her credit. She never shrinks from taking on the toughest jobs first. This year, the festivities began with The Biggie: cleaning out the two-car garage. Or, as she calls it, written in calligraphy on her scroll, “Operation: Get Rid of All of J’s Unused Athletic Equipment And His Beloved Technical Books That Are Too Ugly To Display in our Luxuriously Appointed Living Space Because They Were Not Written By Oprah Book-Club Favorite Nicholas Sparks, So We Can Make Room to Store More Bins of Scrapbooking Supplies”.

As I surveyed the vast expanse of crap we’ve accumulated over the past year, I realized that, even though it was piled from floor to ceiling, it was nonetheless still organized. Near the front was the “paint brushes that never got washed out and two thousand screwdrivers, not a single one of which is Phillips-head” pile, the stack of “unworn women’s shoes that were on sale but don’t match any outfits made since 1989″ and the continuously-growing area for “Things Made with Green Tea”.

Little Known Female Consumer Fact: Women will pay extra for any product, including motor oil and nasal spray, if it contains Green Tea Extract or Cucumber Oil.

Off to one side, I uncovered what I thought might be the parts for building a dog house or small wooden shed. Plywood, metal, tools…but I knew we had never planned to build a dog house because we spend most of our monthly gasoline budget in driving our stoopit yappy daschunds out into the wilderness, dropping them off, and hoping they will learn to forage, instead of always finding their way back to our house and pooping on our welcome mat to show their displeasure. Finally, I realized what this pile of construction materials was, which leads us to:

Widely Known Teenaged Son Fact: Any object, regardless of shape, size, construction, monetary or sentimental value, that gets relegated to the garage for more than three days will immediately be fashioned into some sort of skateboard ramp. My last “yard sale” was a disaster, mainly because nobody is interested in purchasing things like a bust of Voltaire with a sheet of plywood nailed to his head.

So, I lifted and carried and stacked and sweated and cried and swept and boxed and whined and loaded and smoked and drove to and from the dump, all day long and well into the night.

Finally, exhausted and covered with sticky patches from where the paramedics had applied the EKG sensors after I had tried to lift a box marked “Don’t ask J to lift this”, I stood back and surveyed my handiwork, satisfied with the knowledge of a job well-done.

And also with the knowledge that there is still no way in hell that we will ever be able to fit even ONE car inside that %*#?@! garage.

I’m fully aware that I am about as healthy as drinking a jar of mayonnaise through a straw.

I eat too much junk food.
I drink too much.
I smoke too much.
I have too much sex. What? Shut up.

I get winded making the bed.
I have to take frequent rest breaks while riding an escalator.
When using a ladder to hang Christmas decorations, I have to establish a “base camp” on the second rung.

What I’m saying is: it came as no surprise to me that I almost died from the killer “Captain Micks” flu virus that Mickey gave to us all.

What DID surprise me was how quickly, and completely, the disease disabled me, and how long it lasted.

I’m recovered now, and I really appreciated all of your “Get Well Soon”, “We miss you”, “OMG it turns out that you really ARE the source of the SomaCow funny, get your ass back there!” emails, but I thought I would give you a private glimpse into my two weeks of suffering, in hopes that it might at least garner me some sympathy b00bie pics.

A Day on my Deathbed

11:00am – Wake up. Open left eye. Rest briefly. Open right eye.
11:15am – Ask someone to please wring out my pillowcase and replace it with one that is neither dripping nor off-green.
12:00pm – Wish that I could remember what food tastes like.
12:30pm – Take the ninth and tenth Nyquil ComaCaps of the day.
2:00pm – Wake up lying on the cold bathroom tile, wondering whether I was headed there to pee, barf or re-apply my hair gel.
3:00pm – Wish that I could remember what cigarettes taste like,
4:30pm – Insert a ShamWow into each nostril. Try to sleep on my back.
6:00pm – Enjoy a hearty dinner of Afrin Nasal Spray and Cherry Hall’s.
7:00pm – Watch “Friends”. Hey, I’m not DEAD.
7:30pm – Wish that I could remember what sex tastes like.
8:00pm – Collapse into a restless slumber for the night, with fevered dreams of Jennifer Aniston rubbing Vick’s Vap-o-Rub on my pompadour, which causes sparks to shoot out and collect into a rectangle that begins to burn my head.
8:15 – Wake up long enough to realize that what is actually happening is that the heating pad has ignited my hair gel.
8:16 – Decide that putting out the fire can wait until tomorrow.
zzz…ZZZ…zzz…ZZZ…

I wouldn’t wish this miserable virus on anyone. Please, please, please, dear listeners, get your flu shots.

And never, never, never purchase butane hairstyling products.