It turns out that I have been driving around in this 1 ton flatbed truck all week with the fuel line steadily pissing gas (at 2.67 a gallon) directly onto the hot intake manifold. Yes, of course I smelled it, but I assumed the carburetor (manufactured in 1986) was in need of a re-build. I have mad karma points banked, apparently, otherwise I’d be a filler story on WKRN’s traffic report. Or, worse, a Tennessean headline: Suspected Illegal Immigrant Sets Self, Truck Ablaze In Protest.
I own machines. Lots of them. I am pretty damn conscientious about maintenance. I change oil. I lube things. I think I am the last guy on the planet that still packs wheel bearings on my trailers. At some point, though, I must have reached my personal Peter Principle. This is where you come in. I’ve determined I need some additional wives. Or, maybe half-wives. Heres why:
Being a stay at home Dad is a role I have embraced enthusiastically. I dare say I have gotten good at it. I know where everything is at my local grocery store. I can get in and out with a week’s worth of groceries in about 20 minutes, even if I am forced to stop and jaw with a neighbor about how damn hot it is. I can cook. Ok, I can heat stuff up, but my kids eat a fairly balanced diet, and they come running when I call them for dinner, so I must do alright. I separate fabrics and colors when I do laundry. I actually move the fridge and stove out when I clean. I even manage to vacuum often, even though this sets the Pomeranian into a complete meltdown when I do. In short, I make those bitches over at Home Ec 101 look like amateurs.
The thing is, the outside chores are being left undone. I’m so far behind with everything, why, I barely have time to blog! Oh sure, I whiz around to the 1/2 dozen or so blogs I enjoy, leave a condescending comment or two, then bail, and I even read a few leftist/Marxist/traitorous news sites in the morning, but thats about it.
I can blame some of this slackership on the fact that triple digit heat makes it dangerous to work outside for long periods, but shit, Sarcastro is crawling around in people’s attics in this weather, and surely I am tougher than him, right? I thought I wanted to be a gentleman farmer. I envisoned lumbering around a little on my tractor, stacking a few bales of hay in my barn, maybe growing a medium-sized garden. I wanted to smile contentedly while my children laugh and spin on a tire swing. But mostly I wanted to sit atop my fence in a pair comfy jeans, drink some sweet tea and smoke Winstons while I gaze out at my kingdom. (Think Robert Redford in “The Horse Whisperer.”)
It’s not working out that way. Oh yeah I get to toodle around on the tractor a little, but the damn things are hell to maintain, every part weighs more than a compact car, and I know as much about a diesel engine as Glen Dean does about original thought. (Once, though, Ginger and Big Bad Ivy helped me put an implement on my tractor, which really set me to thinking about the whole “I need more wives” thing) Gardens, it turns out, are not self-weeding. That tire swing? Yup, got one, it’s attached to the only tree on the property that hasn’t fallen from eroding soil or been hit by lightning. And the Winstons? 40 cents more a pack, so I have resorted to fishing other people’s butts out of public ashtrays and crossing my fingers that their herpes are in remission.
All of which is to say that I need help. Now. I have enough connections in the Southwest to ensure a steady flow of Mexicans arrive at my farm, but that won’t work, since Aunt B is here alot and she keeps chasing them around until they BEG me to drop them off with Daron Hall. Apparently, there isn’t a single unemployed white guy in this county, since not one responded to my posts at the library’s bulletin board. (thats where unemployed white guys go, right?)
So, I am looking for “wives.” I use quotation marks because it’s important for me to make clear that this is no traditional wife-like role. I’m not seeking additional sex-partners. As a Coyote Creek Honorary Wife, you are expected to keep a supply of boyfriends/girlfriends/lovers that you see on your own time. Please do not bother me with whatever petty physical needs you may have, I’m a busy man, with a rapidly diminishing sperm count, and I am usually asleep by 8:00 pm anyway, sloughing off any remaining testosterone as I slumber. So, do what you have to do.
The wives selected will enjoy unfettered access to well over 90 acres of hayfields and hollers, creeks and cabins, silence and solitude. Grow what you like to eat. Smell the wildflowers. Photograph the deer, or coyotes. Ride the horses. Or, sit your ass in front of the tube and watch the women’s porn channel, HGTV. I don’t care. Just do your share of chores ’round the place, and you’ll get no shit from me. The Primary wife has earned the right to paint or carve gourds all day if she likes, she is to be left undisturbed at all times.
With enough suitable candidates, each will have just a few things to do. Maybe only one. There could be the Shopping Wife. Another could be designated the Cooking Wife. The Help-The-kids-With-Homework Wife. Use your imagination. Once we get caught up, and this place runs like a well-oiled machine, I could then go about my ministry again. (you didn’t know I even had a ministry, didja?) Well I do. I won’t go into it right now, but it basically involves me saving the world.
That can wait.
To apply, send me an email, with a detailed explanation of why I should pick you over any others. Please keep it to under 600 words. Attach a photo, a copy of your Equifax report, your 06 tax returns, (I did mention you will still have to work a regular job, right?) and at least three letters of recommendation. Wiccans need not apply. (It’s not that I don’t love you guys and your wacky rituals and everything, but y’all are a lazy bunch.)
I’ll be in touch.