Big Love In Greenbrier

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.

35 Comments

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35 responses to “Big Love In Greenbrier

  1. In short, I make those bitches over at Home Ec 101 look like amateurs.

    Hahahaha, well, since we’re such amateurs, I guess we won’t be applying to be your wives. ;)

  2. Sarcastro is crawling around in people’s attics in this weather, and surely I am tougher than him, right?

    Bwahahahahaha! That’s just precious.

  3. I make those bitches over at Home Ec 101 look like amateurs.

    ?!

    I’m a busy man, with a rapidly diminishing sperm count

    ?!

  4. You don’t need a wife, Mack, you need a mom.

    Just sayin’ …

  5. Pingback: Really, It’s Not that I’m Trying to Support 287(g) « Tiny Cat Pants

  6. Char

    Right you are Southern Beale!!

    I’m loving the Tennessean headline.

  7. nm

    Once you start rounding up the other wives, I will be your planning/flowchart wife, if (1) I don’t have to go through the application process and (2) if it turns out you’re right and our civilization collapses at any time during my lifetime, you will bring your horses and a wagon to move my household and all our stuff up to your place. Otherwise, ya know, what SB said.

  8. Pingback: Music City Bloggers » Blog Archive » Throwdown Showdown: Mack V. Ivy

  9. Marriage is highly overrated.

    As you are wanting wives, I have decided I just want male playthings.
    Mute, preferably.

  10. As you are wanting wives, I have decided I just want male playthings.
    Mute, preferably.

    LOL.

    I just want the fucking remote control one night, y’know?

  11. I just have no desire to be anybody’s wife if there’s not going to be smooches. Though I really do want to take a wagon down to pick up NM, just to see her sitting there in one of her cute big floppy hats. It’s a toss-up.

    If nm is in, I’m in–smooches or no.

  12. Nm does not have to apply, I thought that was a given. Aunt B does not have to apply, because she would just show up anyway…

    Curiously, though, my inbox remains empty…

  13. As the Resident Tart, my requirements are as follows:

    1) I get to be the Administrative Director (i.e., I get to sit on the computer all day and blog create productivity flowcharts and manage the PMS schedules for the rest of your wives. (This, as a service to you, will protect you from frying pans over the head, etc.)

    2) I get to have Jeff Fisher as a regular overnight guest and you agree to never make fun of his mustache again.

    3) I get to play the Bee Gees at 40 db without retaliation.

    4) Unlimited ice cream.

    5) Unlimited tequila.

    This is a sampling of my contract rider. If you agree to fulfill these requirements, I might consider being one of your wives.

  14. I can’t believe a PersonofMexicanDescent can’t stand the heat!?

    Your people are sprinting the desert right now.

    Wuss.

  15. Living in America makes you soft. Why, I remember a time when just one drunken Irishman could beat up everyone in a small bar. Nowadays, it takes three or four of you.

  16. *sigh* B, why do you hate America so much?

  17. I’m willing to dismantle mechanical things and entertain the dogs. I’m not sure that’s a skill set you want to add, considering my substantial demands.

  18. Well, Rachel, my dogs favorite past-time is watching people work. So, there ya have it.

    Ginger, it would take unlimited tequila to get me to listen to the bee gees.

    Ex, I fight drunken Irishmen when I’m tired I just do it in the fall…

  19. Would it be too much to ask that after you and Exador fight, you strip down to just your drawers and give each other sweaty manly hugs of support and reconciliation?

    And maybe some tender kisses?

  20. Ginger, it would take unlimited tequila to get me to listen to the bee gees.

    heeeyyy!!!

    *pout*

  21. nm

    Just ducking in from entertaining my visitor to say that the BeeGees are a dealbreaker for me. I love ya, Ginger, but no. But if Mack will come by my place with a horse I will ride it with my floppy hat on even if civilization doesn’t collapse.

  22. When does the kissing and smooches start?

    Damn, I’m in. I don’t do housework and yardwork.
    Wait, marriage… eck. that’s a dealbreaker as is the Bee Gees after about two songs (I love you Ginger, but I’m being truthful) although you can be Administrative Director.

    I want to the farm psychic.
    Yeah.

  23. I’m crying right now because of y’all puttin’ the hate on my Bee Gees. *sigh* If it means I can’t be with you all, I guess I could secretly listen to them on my headphones give them up. See how much I love you guys?!?!? You must know that This is HUGE!

  24. Yeah, Mack, you got the new horse in shape yet?

  25. He’s too young, Rachel. I can’t even put a saddle on his back for another year. However, we just traded for a 4 yr old mare, named Feisty Lady, and Cricket has already ridden her. She arrives here on the 27th! Bring your boots!

  26. Ex, I fight drunken Irishmen when I’m tired I just do it in the fall…

    Good thing, cause at your age, I expect you’re tired a lot.

  27. Ginger,
    I will buy you some headphones.
    I LOVE horseback riding.
    I’m not good at it, Mack, but you could see me fall off which might amuse you.

  28. Well, Coma, you know the road here.

  29. You realize I’m just going to show up on your doorstep at 3 in the morning because we are the only ones ever up at that time.
    Well, and Coble.
    I’ll be over tomorrow morning before BarCamp.
    Heh.

  30. Come Friday night, if you like, the cabin is empty.

  31. Um, about that… I kind of have some folks at the cabin right now. I find it’s much easier to keep those guys from running away if I just tie them from the rafters.

  32. I swear to God you people are crazy.

    That said, I volunteer to be the Yard Wife. I actually like mowing the yard; it’s a great de-stressor, but I just don’t have time to do it at my house. I flip on the Psychic Stereo (patented since 1979) and go through my old albums in my head and sing them all, in precise order, at top volume, while I mow.

    It’s mostly Eagles and Ronstadt and Manilow and Streisand and Beatles and Motown, though.

    Does that disqualify me?

    I shouldn’t have tequila while I’m mowing, but maybe y’all can sit out on the porch and drink it and laugh at my singing. And then hand me a plate of ribs and some cerveza and a wet towel when I’m done.

  33. Dump the Manilow and I’m in.

  34. hmmm…so your applicantion requirements are dwindling down to musical preferences, huh? No Bee Gees and no Manilow (well, I have to agree on that one)…

    How about KC and the Sunshine Band? ;)

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