**WIFE APPLICATION**

(I originally wrote this on April 23^rd, 2006. The tongue-in-cheek tenor was apparently lost on Karma, which promptly wove a few madcap twists into my otherwise haphazard, liquor-bathed existence…)

People often say, “I’d hate to wake up and be [some advanced age] having [some cumbersome burden] and never having [fun experience too late to consider].” I’ve uttered these words myself, usually over stiff drinks at unsavory bars, but I’ve never taken the line too seriously. That was until this morning, when I woke up with the disconcerting knowledge that I’m 27 years old. Twenty seven! How and when did this happen? There’s no humanly way I can be this old. 22, maybe… 23, TOPS. But 27? 27 is the age where you’re an ostensible full-fledged adult, as in kids, a house, and a fledgling 401K. One minute you’re in 6^th grade, rummaging around in your father’s top bureau drawer, finding a bag of marijuana and box of condoms (Dad?), and the next you’re practically over the hill!

I’m way behind, and drastic action is necessary; I feel that my only recourse is to significantly fast track my life. As such, I will immediately begin accepting applications for a spouse, preferably one with baggage (I’m already 27, obviously I don’t have the time to be cultivating deep-seated festering wounds and unplanned children from scratch).

There’s no time for wooing. We’ll be bypassing courtship as well as the honeymoon phase and plunge directly to discontented married life! Applicants should be prepared to nag me for not assisting with the household chores, never being home, and caring more about my goddamned friends than I do my own children, for crissakes. You should seek to create an abrasive and unwelcoming atmosphere when I return from my soul-deadening 12 hour workday at my mindless office job, affording me the unmistakable feeling that I’m damned if I do, damned it I don’t.

Further, you should pack on the pounds and withhold sex on a regular basis while simultaneously criticizing my spare tire, which I might get rid of if I got off my ass and did some work around the house for a change. The usage of sex as a weapon is a plus, though not required.

You may want to assimilate various adjectives into your everyday lexicon, including “lazy,” “beer-drinking,” and “no good.” Belittling is a MUST! You will oversee the slow erosion of my inflated male ego until feelings of inadequacy and resentment become permanently encoded into my makeup.

We will plan family trips in our Dodge Caravan that are certain to be awful for all parties involved, particularly our ungrateful children, who will not see the inherent value of a trip to Colonial Williamsburg in lieu of Disney World. On the highway we will invite them to play the license plate game, where they will earn a quarter for each different plate they identify. The lying, opportunistic bastards will invariably spot license plates from all 50 states.

I will refer to you as my “old lady” and will not give you the respect that you deserve for raising the kids while I’m off doing God knows what.

I anticipate having my every little mistake brought to my attention and relentlessly harped upon; you may find it useful to devise a mental database where you can store such transgressions and thus more readily throw them in my face when we fight. To this end, constant bickering will be expected, mostly surrounding my drinking, gambling, and emotional unavailability. Your arguing strategy will ideally consist of emotionally charged, sweeping generalizations against which I cannot possibly hope to defend myself.

Any and all sexual activity will be referred to as “horsing around” and, as previously suggested, such activity will be unsatisfactory, mechanical and passionless on the rare occasions when we do horse around.

Our children. Our kids should be smarmy, spoiled little sons of bitches who will take us for granted and assume that the origin of money is trees. I will anticipate them walking all over me, my reprimands directed at them met with the venomous retort of, “You’re not my real dad!” instilling in me the sharp sting of self-loathing which I will remedy with vodka and your Valiums as I watch M*A*S*H reruns deep into the night.

Ideal candidates should possess numerous maddening quirks, such as chewing your food slowly and with your mouth open, so that I may witness our overcooked pot roast being softly pureed in your meaty chops at dinnertime.

Lastly. You must have a working knowledge of ho w to train a man. As you are all undoubtedly well aware, the only good man is a properly trained one, and who better to accept this responsibility than you, my wife.

Please do not delay. I am 27 and the clock is ticking!