Life with a Woman

knightThe blasted woman is on strike and has left me to write the column for this issue.  Won’t even give me a byline.  Said something about abusive gargoyles didn’t deserve the attention.  Humph.  What does she know?  She’s just a female and little more than a child.  Old, indeed.  When she has seen as much as I have, then she can worry about gray hair and losing her figure.  Only, I think if she had seen as much as I have, those would be the least of her worries.

But back to the woman and her overactive imagination and stuck up friends.  I’d say more, but seeing as I am a kept man, so to speak, I mustn’t nibble too hard on the hand that feeds me.  After all, she gives me a warm place to sleep, not like the last oaf who thought me a garden ornament.  Rain, sleet, or snow, made no difference to him, but it did me.  Francine thinks of my comforts, at least most of the time.  When it comes to natural bodily functions such as passing gas, she’d just as soon I explode my innards rather than relieve the pressure indoors.  And, no matter how much I protest the need for a bath, she forces one upon me.  In all my years, I have not taken as many baths as I have since moving in with her.  But, alas, she is the queen of the castle, so to speak, and she rules with an iron fist.

Why, if I were still a real man, I’d show her a woman’s place, but that won’t happen.  She calls me her pet.  She’d never accept me as her equal, never mind superior.

I was a man, once, you know.  A knight, a protector to the queen, mostly from her husband.  There never was a more ruthless bastard than the king, at least when it came to helpless women and children.  On the battlefield, he spent his time safely away from the bloodshed, allowing his kinsmen and inferiors to fight in his stead.

A fine looker too, I might add.  I never lacked a maiden on my arm or in bed, when I wanted one.  It never came to more than that though.  My queen was my world and none could live up to her, until Francine.  Now, don’t go telling her that.  The woman would never let me hear the end of it.  She’d climb up on that high horse of hers and never come down to the common man’s level again.  As it is, she spends all her money on manicures, hair dye—natural, my ass, mousy brown and stringy—and keeping up appearances so her so-called friends will associate with her.  Not one has ever given me the time of day.  Don’t know why she tolerates them, but she does.  So I don’t say much.

Probably said more than I should already, but Francine’s editor was bitchin’ about due dates and length.  Editors and cats.  Have no use for either.  Bah!

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