Friday nights at the F’er household are pretty mellow. Between work and writing sonnets for Crystal Bernard, I’m usually all tuckered out by Friday and Mrs. F’er has to get up early for work on Saturday morning. Either that, or she’s going to temple and hasn’t told me that she’s Jewish. Maybe I’ll follow her someday if I’m up before nine.
So we make a pizza (never with pork sausage… my suspicion grows) and plant ourselves in front of the television. While the pizza is baking we usually have a discussion that I can usually stretch out for at least five minutes before Mrs. F’er realizes the utter ridiculousness of it and threatens to remove my jugular with the pizza cutter. Tonight I was quizzing her on the location of my various scars and broken bones. Whoever said marriage is boring? She was doing pretty well until I asked her about the location of my third nipple, which I would think would be cool to have and use to squirt people. She correctly pointed out that I do not possess a third nipple, but then she made a critical error and, in an apparent reference to my lack of mammary glands, asked what I planned to squirt people with. I answered “cherry limeade” without hesitation as she reached for the pizza cutter. I was now intrigued with my imaginary third nipple filled with cherry limeade and asked her if she would drink the cherry limeade from my nipple. I was deeply offended when she said no. What’s wrong with my cherry limeade nipple, I thought to myself. Actually, I asked her directly and we debated about it for several minutes. Eventually, she expressed some concern over the sugar content so I offered to fill it with Splenda just for her, but she reminded me that artificial sweeteners are even worse in her opinion. I put her in hypothetical situations such as a long, dusty bike ride on a hot day with no water and she still refused the cool nipple refreshment. I finally got her to agree to drink it only if it was filled with ice water and she was suffering severe dehydration.
If the timing is right, the pizza comes out of the oven at 7 p.m. just in time to catch the repeat of The Apprentice on CNBC. I love watching Carolyn and George give those cocky jackass wannabes all sorts of hell for being incompetent. George is kind of sexy when he yells at them. Did I say George? I meant Carolyn. I think Randall has the thing locked up unless he gets some bad acid and tries to surf on the boardroom table, but I also hope they keep Rebecca around just for being so darn cute.
When 8 p.m. rolls around we have recently discovered Survivorman on The Science Channel. Those wacky Science Channel producers pick some remote location in the world and drop our hero off with nothing more than a Swiss army knife, a bag of cheetos, a copy of Barely Legal, and his camera equipment to film his quest to survive seven days until they come to pick him up. Since the extent of my outdoor survival training has consisted of eating some girl scout cookies once a year, this show has given me the confidence that I, too, can make a bed out of monkey turds and live off the land without suffering a Violet Beauregarde-like fate.
The night climaxes with The Soup on E! at 9 p.m. A wacky 30 minute recap of your favorite reality and talk show moments from the week. Sid says check it out. Capture the maximum idiocy in the minimum amount of time.
At 9:30 p.m. it’s time for dessert, but I’ll save my bread pudding debacle for another time….
As Mrs. F’er heads off to a peaceful slumber, I check the household coffers to see if the stash is sufficient to support my early retirement. The shortfall throws me into a deep fit of depression and I spend the rest of the evening composing dirges on my Casio keyboard, hopeful that dirges will take over pop radio in the near future and flood my mailbox with royalty checks. As I lay me down to sleep, I practice creative visualization by picturing myself on stage with my Casio keyboard headlining Dirge-a-Palooza before thousands of morose fans and slowly drift off into Saturday morning.