You All Looked Better At Closing Time

Among my wives and their husbands, the "’til death do us part" oath has been recited eleven times. None of us is dead, but we are all arthritic from excessive finger-crossing. That’s OK, though, because I think we have enough participants to form a trade group for purchases of health insurance and for volume discounts at Walgreen’s.

I am effectively a member of a commune. In the psychedelic 60s, the concept of communal living implied simultaneous sharing of accommodations and partners. In the ensuing decades, we hippies have learned to pace ourselves. We build our communes one temporary monogamous relationship at a time.

I still have furniture and appliance receipts for items now residing in at least three other households within my vast commune. With the passage of time, I’m sure that number will increase. It’s the finger-crossing exponent of quantum multiple marriage mathematics. Children I have never met are eating with utensils I purchased. Some guy is farting in my chair.

According to my application of the Geometric Jizz-Spray Theorem and associated corollaries promulgated by the Centers for Disease Control, I have consummated sexual relations with every living being on the planet. All within the holy confines of marriage and without leaving the comfort of my own home. Yes, including you. Don’t be offended, but I don’t remember our rendezvous. I don’t know if I fucked you or you fucked me, but we have swapped DNA.

Whenever I receive a wedding invitation, now that I am armed with this extensive carnal knowledge, I RSVP "maybe next time." I have already provided toasters and blenders for my entire promiscuous global family. And my attendance at the wedding would be wholly inappropriate. According to the CDC formulae, I have slept with the bride. And the groom. And their sisters. And their brothers. And their moms. And their dads. I still have the hots for mom.

By the way, does anybody else have a thing on their lip? I need all of your medical histories before my next physical.

So the next time you pass me on the street, don’t avert your eyes. After all we have shared together, it’s hurtful when you treat me like a stranger. Your mom doesn’t.