Dear Ms. Heartless,
My new wife Bobbi is hard to understand. What’s happened in the past month or so is very unnerving. First Bobbi complains that I’m just laying around the house on weekends. So, since she won’t let me take her dancing, I decided to get myself, if not Bobbi, a hobby. Already a tool-and-die man, I thought I’d set up a little metalworking shop in the garage. You know, putter around and maybe build some lawn furniture. But then we had this big argument over China taking up where North Korea left off. Me, I was flabbergasted to hear Bobbi take the wimpy pacifist side, and so soon after criticizing me for laying in our hammock to play Game of War on my iPad while the grass grew higher than Ed’s next door! Anyway, I started calling around to various aerospace contractors and computer stores. Believe me, it was just a gag to watch Bobbi wig out. But then this guy over at the junkyard takes me serious and tries selling me sixty sheets of surplus titanium he just bought from Halliburton, along with six cases of vodka. Before long I’m dipping into our vacation fund so I can buy an old Minuteman booster engine that’s been collecting rust in a warehouse in Huntsville, plus enough Simms chips to upgrade my ancient Dell to eighty gigs. After that I’m assembling a fuselage in the back yard—and boy, did that really shut Bobbi up! Trouble is, she stopped talking to me completely. Especially when she found out I’d also taken a second mortgage on the house…and sold some of her jewelry to buy rocket fuel. Bobbi did like the publicity for a while, I must point out. The first time I gave my missile a four-second test burn for the benefit of the police SWAT team who’d surrounded us, she actually grinned and pointed at me. You shoulda heard her describe how I was saving the American taxpayer trillions by providing war strategy as a private citizen. She divulged my fiscal accountability too, letting them know that I don’t pay eighty bucks for a screwdriver like the wasteful Pentagon boys do. I was so grateful to her at that point that I only interrupted to admit that although my contribution wasn’t much, if EVERY neighborhood handyman upgraded their computer and built an ICBM beside his bird bath, the world would be so much safer as a result. Then, I said, all the terrorists out there would know we can be as insane as they are, and we’d have the world’s respect at last! Luckily, Bobbi managed to calm all the men down by serving them her special hot wings with mushroom soup dipping sauce. By the time I started talking about how I was helping the government concentrate on big issues like health care and out-of-control-celebrities some of them had even lowered their M-16s! During the question and answer period of my lecture, I confessed that my missile didn’t really house a warhead—just a canister of some spent nuclear fuel rods I’d picked up along the interstate. Not only were they calmed by this point, they promised to take up a collection to see if they could help me buy a decent second-hand Cold War nuke. I think Bobbi was most fascinated, though, when Donald Trump visited to congratulate me for invoking the spirit of “private enterprise.” Trump, flanked by a reluctant President wannabe Paul Ryan, said over and over how this would sustain him in Palm Beach history books as a hero, too. His fondest hope, he said, was that my viral craze would spread. Not only did Bobbi pose for photos as The Donald rattled on, she took special care to fit them with stylish uniforms for my launch facility, which consisted of my now sentient Fire Tablet (nicknamed “Dr. Strange Love”) linked to a shortwave radio in my greenhouse. Then I overheard her divulging her own idea about parachuting in some crates of parachute pants to make Kim Jong-goon a target of the international fashion police. At this point the DOD secretary interrupted to reward me with a canister of nerve gas, circa 1958, to enhance my arsenal. The only stipulation was that I had to get a Doberman to protect it. Naturally my neighbor Ed was so jealous by then that he swiped my Congressional Medal of Honor off the barbecue grill. Unfortunately, my missile would probably prove ineffective in a retaliatory strike because I’d estimated it would take three hours to launch it. My problems were compounded when during the night Chuckles—our three month old Doberman—suffered a mysterious malady which left him paralyzed from the muzzle down. I remember I called the White House that morning on the suspicion that my nerve gas was leaking and one of the aides there informed me Pentagon brass were visiting Floyd Cramer, a plumber in Baton Rouge who’d successfully assembled a makeshift Cruise Missile out of galvanized pipe. To make a long story short, I quickly dialed Scuba World and ordered a wet suit and air tank. By nightfall I’d buried my leaky canister in a landfill outside of town, on top a’ which they didn’t plan to build a tenth Starbucks until Christmas 2019. Soon breathing easier, I replaced the missing canister with a tank of laughing gas so no one would suspect. Ever since this incident Bobbi has either been in her darkroom or writing in her special diary with the word “Memoir” on the cover. Women have always been a mystery to me, and she’s no exception, Ms. Heartless. She won’t listen to me when I explain to her that I’m only doing this because Washington needs all the diversion it can get. I’ve even tried to make her proud of me—my launch time is down to twenty-two minutes and my missile range is up to as far as Rio Linda. Nothing seems to work. Do you have any suggestions for me?
No suggestions for you, but for our readers, I suggest putting down the TV Guide and subscribing to my second channel about bump stock bumper stickers instead.