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Dear Esperanza: Men-oh-pause

August 4, 2010

Dear Esperanza:

I’m looking forward to death. I bought my plot, planted flowers around it. I visit my future home whenever I can. I bring my lunch, enjoy a picnic, share a beer with my neighbors. So peaceful. So quiet. But eventually, I have to go home—there’s no bathroom at the cemetery and it’s not polite to pee on my future neighbors.

I dread going home. To her. The creature from the Black Lagoon. The monster even True Blood can’t imagine. She’s evil. Possessed. Mean as hell.

She used to be sweet, cariñosa, pretty. But that was then. Men-oh-pause has reared its ugly head. And it’s out to get me. Out to destroy me.

I’m too chickensh1t to commit suicide. So I wait for her to kill me. Poison me. Strangle me. Decapitate me.  A sweet release from my misery. But she won’t do it—she just wants to torture me. Scream, complain, ride me–in not a good way–everyday…for the rest of my miserable sh1teating life.

It’s too late for me. But you can save your male readers before it’s too late!

Run, Homie….Run!

Hormone.Hating.Husband

**

Dear Melodramatic Moron:

This is a horrible, terrible tragedy.

What kind of foo doesn’t have the huevos to kill himself?

My last husband wanted to kill himself. I told him to wait until I reviewed his life insurance, pension and found his gambling cash. After everything was in order, I gave him the green light, even offered to write the hasta-la-bye-bye letter—the boy can’t spell.

And nada.

He tried to hang himself but he couldn’t tie the noose right. I knocked the chair from under him and he just tumbled to the floor and broke a finger. Pinche guey.

He overdosed on laxatives instead of sleeping pills. Couldn’t get him out of the bathroom for days.

I told him to try that Chino move—gut himself with a knife. I sharpened the knife, told him to hold it with both hands and plunge it in his beer belly. How could he miss? That belly was enormous. He missed. Cut off his left nipple and didn’t stop crying for days.

What a disappointment. I had my widow outfit ready—a cute strapless mini. Even found the perfect stilettos to go with it. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

I wore my widow outfit at the divorce hearing. I would’ve made a hot widow. But it’s never too late to try again.

The lesson here, Melodramatic Moron, don’t just say it….DO IT!

Love is a mucho splendored thing.

Just do it…

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. August 4, 2010 8:34 am

    Como chingas, male menopause is a lot more fun than female menopause. With female menopause you gain weight and get hot flashes. Male menopause – you get to date young girls and drive motorcycles.

    • ScreenWriter Consortium permalink
      August 4, 2010 9:33 am

      Not fair, Punkie! LOLOLOL!
      E:

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