My wife loves fast food. I am not. My wife especially loves the Wendy's Baconator. I argue that it's cheaper to order a Dave's Double with bacon and then put your own pretzels on top. (I love the Rold Gold Tiny Twists Original.) This keeps the pretzels crunchy. Because my wife and I jointly own our home in Virginia, she is entitled to her order. It was my wife who refused to tip the delivery person last week when her hamburger arrived soggy, writing, “Would you like a tip? Here's one: go back to your own country,” on his DoorDash page. It had nothing to do with me.
My wife loves private jets. I am not. It was my wife who accepted a free flight on a Gulfstream G200 to Aspen, Colorado, for an all-expenses-paid weekend with oil industry lobbyists. I took a seat next to my wife, because otherwise it would have been empty. While flying I was offered a packet of cashew nuts “sprinkled with truffle salt” and not wanting to seem rude I accepted. In Aspen, I occupied the left side of the king bed in the Four Seasons presidential suite, which would otherwise have been empty as well. My wife loves luxury hotels and 800 thread count sheets, which I think is excessive. That is her right as a private individual.
My wife loves Timothée Chalamet. I am not. While I like it, I don't find it attractive, if that makes sense. My wife was solely responsible for us seeing “Call Me by Your Name” three times. I had not been informed in advance of the film's compelling sexual undertones and went only to accompany my wife, who is a private citizen and a member of the Regal Crown Club.
My wife loves expensive men's watches. I am not. It was my wife filling a vintage 38mm. Patek Philippe Calatrava in my underwear as we left Neiman Marcus over the holiday weekend. So there was no reason to subject me to questions from the guard, especially from someone who refers to me as “friend” and not “Your Honor.” There's also no reason I wouldn't wear the watch in public after the store manager kindly offered the watch as an apology for the security guard's rudeness. My wife loves expensive men's watches. I don't, even though this one is quite nice.
My wife isn't crazy about your wife. I am. For that reason, I disagree with my wife's characterization of your wife as a “woman with an axe.” I also believe that there is no need to hide the drink from her every time you visit together. I think it's entirely possible for your wife and I to be good friends, and even go out to dinner together occasionally, without it becoming a “thing.” But because my wife is an equal owner of our Virginia home – and therefore an equal partner in all its contents – I agreed to hide the liquor from your wife, whom I am fond of, even though my wife is not .
My wife loves Norwegian death metal. I am not. It was my wife who played Gorelord's “Dismembered Virgin Limbs” on a loudspeaker for three days straight after you complained that our dog was once again defecating on your children's splash pad. I was unaware of the music until the police arrived. Then I politely asked my wife to turn it down, or perhaps switch to something softer, like Darkthrone or an early Myrkskog. She refused, which is her right as a citizen with an A driver's license and as a former notary who loves Norwegian death metal and our dog. Our dog is not fond of you. That's right with our dog.
My wife loves parades. I am not. It was my wife who suggested we join a march through Durham, North Carolina. I didn't know at the time that the protesters included neo-Nazis, Russian oligarchs, several Aryan Brotherhood leaders, three of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted, and Ted Cruz, although my wife is not fond of Ted Cruz. I made some brief comments to the audience because I was told that the stage would be empty between David Duke and Björn Höcke's performances. Otherwise I wouldn't have done it.
Some critics claim that my wife's actions mean I should withdraw from the affairs of the country. I do not agree. If you have any questions, please contact my attorney, my wife. It has nothing to do with me. ♦
