Home From the Wars

More Winifred!

 

Warning; NOT politically correct!

     Finally!  Winifred thought to herself, as she guided the 72 Dart into her driveway.  Damn, her parking spot was blocked by her husband's 4x4.  She immediately felt the red-hot fire of anger, and laid on the horn.  After about 30 seconds, Bartholomew came flying out the door, still trying to button his pants.  He glared at her.  Winifred just smirked and glared right back.  He was saying something, but whatever it was, she didn't particularly care; she rolled down the window and heard,

 

     "...go to the bathroom in peace?  Lay off the horn, would you?"

 

     After the day she'd had, she was not in the mood.  "Blah, blah, blah; I work all day having to put up with people's moronics, and what's the first thing I see when I get home?"

 

     "Well, my baby's home; hey everybody, it's my baby; and fine, baby, my day was fine, thanks for asking!" he shouted.

 

     "Oh, I get it; sarcasm; my husband's trying to be sarcastic; you really ought to stick to what you're good at; whining like only you can,", she snapped in reply. As he sputtered in silent, angry frustration, Winifred continued her angry responded, "Move your truck already!"

 

     She watched as he glared at her, wheeled around, and stomped to the truck, trailing a streamer of toilet paper from his shoe as she watched him walk away.  Figures!  She then lurched her car into her parking spot, slamming the car door and marching past him, disappearing into the house.

 

 

     Once inside, she reached for the scotch, and started to put ice in a glass, then quickly changed her mind.  She upended the bottle and let the fiery liquid burn away her anger.  Only when she felt the scotch start to weave its magic spell did she finish filling a glass with ice, and finished making her drink, then slumping down in her ratty old recliner chair.  Her husband had tried to talk her in to buying a new one, but Winifred only felt comfortable in this old one.  They'd both been beaten down by the truly s****y life out there, and yet both still worked. 

 

 

    After three or four drinks, and as many cigarettes, she at last was starting to unwind from her crap day.  Bartholomew approached her, rather timidly, for he knew all-too-well the danger when Mt. Winifred blew, and he wanted to be safely out of range,

 

     "Hunny, I could use your advice."

 

     You could use a brain, too, but unfortunately, there isn't a whole hell of a lot I can do about that! thought Winifred.  "Sure."

 

     "Well, there's a guy at work,"

 

     There's the key to your problem right there, a GUY! she thought.

 

     "who's always kissing up to the boss; saying whatever he thinks the boss wants to hear.  I feel like next to his comments, mine are going to seem negative and contradictory.  I always give my honest opinion of something, and he always takes the bosses' side.  I'd appreciate your advice on how I should handle it."

 

     Winifred squinted at her husband through a haze of blue cigarette smoke, and pondered what her reply would be.  She was always telling him he should grow a pair, but it sounded in this case her husband's nuts weren't the problem.  "Well, I would advice you to wait until after work, and follow the knee-pad wearing, a*s-kissing yes man out to his car, and put the fear of God into him by grabbing him by his lapels and shaking him back and forth, telling him that if he ever makes you look bad in front of your boss again, you'll beat him to within an inch of his life, but knowing you like I do, you'll be lucky to get within a mile and a half!"

 

     He listened to her advice, and wisely knew enough was enough.  "Thank you, hunny.  Well, I guess I'll turn in."

 

     "What?" she angrily replied, "But it's still light out."

 

      "Yeah, well, I'm beat."

 

     From doing what? she wondered.  "Fine; do what you want, so, goodnight!"

 

     He silently said a thank you, to whomever was listening, and quickly left the room, after mumbling a quick goodnight.  He knew better than to try a quick kiss when she was in a mood.

 

  

     As she watched her flaccid husband run away like the puss he was, she was thinking, I'm glad I wear the pants in this family, because he doesn't.  He's perfectly content to wear a frilly dress and sing show tunes!  She then poured herself another shot of artificial courage; she would need it to make it through yet-another day at Ink Wandering, or Hell, as she thought of it.

 

The End

 

    

 

    

     

Reviews

[Marie]

I think Bartholomew should turn Winifred loose on this guy...

[Michael Stevens]

I think that is a great idea!

[A. H. Pinley]

It would be hell living with this lady. It would be like being Mr. Clinton or Mr. Pelosi. This husband must be bald and stress problems that shoot up through the roof. This is more like a thanks but no thanks.

[Michael Stevens]

Oh poor Winifred (totally agree!)