Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Mansel in distress

The husband is very often, a self-appointed knight in shining armour for damsels in distress. He is on a personal mission to set right any man who does not behave with propriety with a woman and always thinks it’s his business to rescue nubile and not-so-nubile nymphets from the clutches of filthy men with dirty minds and long paws. Can’t remember when was the last time someone did that for you? Well, that’s what makes him a somewhat extinct species, and you might think I would be grateful for it.

Not really, because at least in my case, the men have been the ones who needed rescuing, since I look after myself very well, thank you. But the real reason I am not grateful is because most of the time, the said damsel is happy to be in distress and so, the husband’s intervention with a threat or a shove or a “Let’s take it outside” with the said man just spoils things for her. She thinks the pawing and the getting too cosy for comfort is actually working for her, so knights like him are clearly not welcome.

In the past it was his BFF, who often got into trouble with her mixed signals and then screamed for help when the pawing began. The result was many a road block and a few broken bones. In recent times, it has been women going through mid-life crises, after having figured out that they were with the wrong guy after all, so how about a little net practice with Mr Giggolo? (a name I chose thanks to the said person’s over-the-top masculinity and signs thereof)

So while the damsels are doing just fine, the husband seems to be the one in distress, losing sleep and peace of mind trying to rescue them from men they don’t want to be rescued from and then wondering why.

In recent times, his interventions have actually backfired, because the men he took offence to, like Mr Giggolo, seemed to be the flavour of the season among his ‘inner circle’ and so, he came out looking like the enemy for no fault of his.

Ironically, one is also subjected to regular whinings from certified bimbettes about how a certain Mr Spineless did nothing whilst being cushioned in the front seat of a taxi while she was being pawed in the back seat by a certain Mr Creepy. Now why was she in the back seat with Creepy, don’t ask. Why couldn’t she just disfigure his balls, don’t ask. Why was Mr Spineless in the front seat, don’t ask. And how did Creepy get into the taxi, don’t ask.

In the meanwhile, the husband resorts to the controller, killing in virtual life what he cannot in the real one.

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