My Mafia Divorce

To be perfectly honest I don't have time to be doing this. After all, I am a man in dire straights. Desperately trying to make ends meet, handle a nasty divorce, find employment, avoid bill collectors, make sure that my bartender drives a nicer car than myself, find God, answer my mother's three thousand voice messages starting with the line, "Sweetie, are you on drugs?", find the perfect condom, and discover who keeps leaving one lone shoe on the side of every major highway in the United States.

Yes,I'm getting a divorce, after thirteen grueling years. Thirteen
years that by all rights should count for at least twenty. Married to a woman who's anger and hostility was so prevalent that she had developed permanent erosion lines in her face from excessive frowning and squinting. Married to a woman who once told me, "I don't want to be married to you, "I just don't want anyone else to have you." Actually I was very impressed by the devotion of that statement. Sure it was cruel and unfeeling but it was, without a doubt worthy of the Caligula Award. It gave me the impression that if she decided to take that one extra little step in her rage and kill me, that it would not be enough. She would have to devise a way to kill me, revive me and kill me again, a never ending struggle between murder and the kiss of life.

So twice a month, I have to cruise on down to the local court house
and confront my greatest adversaries, my wife and her pet attack monkey in a suit. They were made for each other like Adolf and Eva, Bonnie and Clyde, and that freaky little couple from, "Natural Born Killers". My attorney on the other hand, is a realist. A friggen realist who happens to think in realistic terms. He is the kind of guy who would have advised President Eisenhower to send the leaders of Japan comfortable chairs, Binoculars, SPF 300 sunscreen, and fresh underwear with a letter inviting them to witness the first publicized atomic explosion a mile off the coast of Japan. I'm sure it would have done the trick, but in the United States Civil Court System, you better be prepared to not only drop the bomb but dress it up in a colorful Sunday Easter bonnet before you drop it. You want nothing less than hair, teeth and eyes splattered all over the courtroom. All I know is I want Micheal Corleone as my attorney.I want severed horses heads, dead fish, and piano wire. I want offers that cant be refused and Moe Green dead with a bullet through his eye. I have no use for Atticus Finch, a great guy but Tom still
ended up dead in the end.

Well, enough said, I'm outta here....This is off the cuff and as
truthful as it comes, no editing or agonizing over whether one verb has more bite than another. Actually, this is just my way of wasting time until my ship comes in...which incidentally, is supposed to arrive any second now.