The Throes of Spiritual Blue Balls

A very nice lady in Atlanta who just moved in with her Gentleman Caller asked me why I had to move out of my own house and into a friend's house for the weekend. Well, my future in-laws were coming down. My future Mother-in-law is Catholic, and grew up on a farm. By Catholic I mean strict almost to the point of flagellation for even thinking of the word penis (not that she would ever do it). By grew up on a farm, I mean dense to the point of being outraged by common occurances (like body piercings).

She has three children, the youngest of which I am marrying. When her oldest daughter came home from school after that required health class (you know the one, its where you learn why you are getting boobies, body hair, and why your pants got tight presicly five seconds before the teacher would call you up to the front of the class and that one son of a bitch would stab you in the junk with a compass and wouldn't get into trouble because he would inoccently state that he thought you had a snake in your pants, which you did, but it certainly didn't need another hole in it. Fucker.) and asked a very scientific question about monthly cycles in the nethers. Mom responded that she had not had her monthly yet, even though she had three children.

This woman was truly upset last Christmas when I informed her that Jesus was a black man. She had always pictured him to be the blond haired, blue eyed savior of the Nordic people. I do believe that she has repressed that little notion deep, deep down.


Behold, my Lord and Savior









So, about six months ago, while visiting the future in-laws (where the fiancee gets her old bedroom and I get to sleep on the pullout couch which is very comfortable), I wake up one Saturday morning after a visit from the little man (you know, the one that punishes you for drinking too much the night before by coming into your room while you are sleeping and taking a shit in your mouth) and who is sitting there, watching me sleep, but my future Mother-in-law.

"Good morning, Charles." she says.

"Good morning, future Mother-in-law." I say.

"I was wondering, what are the sleeping arrangements at the house when you guys go back home." The fiancee had entered the room at this point, I turned to look at her. She had opened her mouth, ready to tell her mother the truth about our sleeping arrangements (which coincidentally, cut our bills in half). Quickly, I pulled up every ounce of my being, and cut the fiancee off.

"Well, future Mother-in-law," I said with a fuzzy toothed smile, "we will probably do the same thing we have been doing until we get married, which is to have the fiancee sleep at the house, while I sleep at the old room mates' new house until we are married in the eyes of God, country, and family."

Fiancee's mouth fell completely open. Future Mother-in-law nodded her head, smiled, stood up and went to make breakfast. Fiancee sat there catatonic, not believing that I had just flat out lied to her mother. She got over it.

Now, we are doing the Catholic thing. Celebacy before marriage. We have had some close calls (like every morning when I am in the shower), but have so far been sticking to it. My strategy? I made a bet with the fiancee that, if I do not succumb to my lustful urges, either manually (thus the pain of the cold shower) or with someone else (which would end the engagement and the marriage), I would get $20 to spend however I saw fit (how much pot does $20 buy nowadays?) and (the coup de grace) I will also get to name our English Bulldog, when we finally get one.

What do you think of Icabod Morton Aluiscius Everdapper? I think it has quite a roll to it.