The last
time I offered marital advice, my thought provoking
observation prompted a reader to thrash me in a
display ad in the local paper. Leftists only
tolerate ideas with which they agree, but since this
citizen has relocated, I feel safe offering two more
tidbits on trophy wife psychology.
Last Friday, just before lunch, I was rolling up our
driveway when I spotted the trophy wife stomping
towards me carrying a rope. From the way she glared
at me, I knew our lunch break would be a less than
conjugal visit. I quickly scanned the scene behind
her so as to prepare a reasonable excuse should I
need one. There was one partially competed swath
encircling the yard leading to the tractor mower
which was parked at an odd angle on the bank of the
pond immediately behind a four-wheeler. “Don’t ask!”
She barked and this quickly brings me to my first
point. “Don’t ask” does not mean don’t ask, it
actually means you better ask, but only after
immediately apologizing without knowing why. (I do
not make the rules; I just have them memorized.)
“I’m sorry; what happened?” I begged and this is
what I learned. Early Friday morning I offhandedly
mentioned someone should mow the lawn before we left
for the GOP convention. To be helpful, the trophy
wife attempted cut the grass, but found she couldn’t
open the double doors on the storage shed due to a
stubborn locking pin securing the inactive door. She
walked to the garage for a screw driver and hammer
and her enthusiasm for yard work dampened with each
step. Fortunately for me, the lawn tractor did
start.
Nearing the end of her first circle, the lawn
tractor tires slipped down the muddy bank to the
pond’s edge which drops into five feet of water; a
testament to my industrious springtime pond cleaning
efforts with my backhoe. Had the mower disappeared
underwater, I suspect she would have left it there
hinting some nefarious soul had stolen it from the
shed during the night. Druann gingerly crawled off
the mower precariously balanced on the pond’s edge,
hopped on a four-wheeler and inched it close to
winch the tractor from the bank. This is when she
discovered the winch’s cable was wedged so tight she
could not free it from the spool, which is when she
learned that particular four-wheeler cannot be
placed in reverse without a huge jerk on the shifter
and her jerk wouldn’t be home for another thirty
minutes. With only forward gears, she threw her 125
pound frame against the 688 pound four-wheeler to
push it back far enough to turn around and tow the
lawn tractor out of danger; a super human feat
thanks to her attitude pegging the trophy wife
ticked-off meter. After explaining her story, she
hopped on the mower and cut the grass to her grand
finale.
While turning on her last lap, she backed too close
to the pond and stuck the rear wheels in the mud.
With the wheels spinning and the mower blades
screaming, the tractor was sinking deeper and
deeper. I slowly approached figuring I could grab
the front axle and jerk the mower to dry ground, but
if my feet were to slip, the spinning blades would
eat me alive. She needed to disengage the blades,
but her ear plugs muffled my instructive hollering
and this brings me to my second point. Under no
circumstances is a husband ever to whistle to get
his wife’s attention; another rule which makes no
sense but is strictly enforced by my trophy wife.
Resembling redneck lawn charades, I made slashing
motions across my throat, which prompted a creepy
smile to break across her face, but I had to keep
gesturing before she understood and hit the PTO
button. With the blades stopped, I jerked the mower
from the mud. End of story, so I offered my trophy
wife a compromise. If I fixed the locking pin on the
storage shed, the winch and the reverse on the
four-wheeler, could I whistle at her when I needed
her attention? After a lengthy discussion, we
reached a compromise because in marriage both
parties share the same harmonious goal; an
arrangement not found in politics and this brings me
to my final point.
For 100 years, collectivism has been the goal of the
Democrat Party, while the Republicans support
limited government. Battling from mutually exclusive
foundations, compromise can occur only when one side
surrenders, or the issue is of meaningless
significance such as the designation of the state
pancake. In my four terms in Montana’s House,
compromise ALWAYS means liberal Republicans helping
Democrats grow government because Democrats NEVER
help Republicans advance liberty. This is an
undeniable truth. I could give you specific
examples, but am out of time because I need to mow
the freaking lawn.
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