Today you’re going to tell your Dad that you’re getting married and he, being the over-protective son of a bitch that he can’t help being, will ask what your fiancé does for a living.
“She’s an explosives expert,” you’ll say.
Your fiancé will hear you from the other room and she’ll wander into the kitchen with a big grin on her face. “Well, I wouldn’t say expert, but I’m pretty frigging good.”
Your fiancé will grab you by your ass and pull you in for a kiss. Your father will watch.
“Who do you work for?” your father will ask because he’s apparently the fucking Gestapo all of a sudden.
“Whoever pays the most,” your fiancé will say.
Your father will drag you into the other room. “I didn’t raise my son to marry a mercenary,” he’ll say.
“You didn’t raise me, period,” you’ll say.
Your fiancé will stand too close to the stove and the stray gunpowder on her sweater will ignite. She’ll run screaming.
“This what you want?” your father will ask you. “You want a wife who’s constantly on fire?”
“Better than a wife that’s always ice cold,” you’ll say.
Your father will slap you and tell you not to talk about your mother like that. You’ll run out the front door, crying. You’ll forget that your fiancé is still on fire in the kitchen. You won’t remember until you’ve run all the way to the train station the way you used to when you threatened to run away from home as a teenager.
Things were simpler then, back when you could pretend to run away from home without having to worry about the fact that your fiancé just exploded. Why do we have to grow up?
Happy She’s An Explosives Expert Day!
