But here’s the thing–you just don’t make Texas women mad. This is the land of petticoats and pearl-handled pistols, and the women here know how to use both.
Seriously. Don’t mess with Texas women.
A woman in Houston got mad at her hubby, and I’m pleased to say he got exactly what he deserved when she backed over the lyincheatinsackoshit with her BMW. She may have gotten away with it by saying it was an accident. If she hadn’t run over him twice.
I have been known to exact a bit of karmic justice my ownself when deeply wronged, but have stopped just short of attempting vehicular manslaughter, even when it was so richly deserved. We did, I suppose, learn from Mizz Bobbitt that chopping off a man’s favorite appendage does not pay, he’ll just find the damn thing, staple it back on and make porn.
GBC (Guy Before Chap) took the brunt of my wrath a time or two (or three). The first time he came stumbling home drunk as a coot, I left him laying the bathroom where passed out, but before shutting the door to leave him to his own misery, I acquired a big Sharpie marker and drew a super-sized, anatomically correct penis from his chin to his actual man part.
When he awoke, he stumbled to the mirror, and puzzled, looked down and found my handiwork.
“Huh,” he said. “So I’m a dick, huh?”
As things devolved, I became aware of Other Woman, and I seriously considered gluing his frank to his beans.
But my desire not to spend time in the slammer sent me in a different direction, and I settled for burning all his underwear in the back yard.
Lucky for Mizz NoInsurance CarWrecker, I have for the most part grown out of such behavior, and have rarely leveled my wrath on one of my fellow sisters.
But I will say, you never know when revenge will rise again. As my grandma used to say, “You gotta sleep sometime.”
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Recently, Chap rearranged all our furniture so that his new big screen tee-vee was the center of our hearth and home.
I nearly had a stroke.
“What have you done?” I cried. “The only thing I can think of with worse feng shui is a Tiajuana toilet!”
“Just wait,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”
That evening, he looked at me quizzically ’round about dinner time.
“What’s for supper?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get used to it.”