*breathy voice* What Are You Doing Tonight?

Once upon a time there was a movie called "Storytelling."

My friend Amy M. wished to see said movie because it was rumored to be edgy and controversial. It had a sexy slinky buzz, kinda like my pubic hair. (Pics still to come.) Amy M. and I heartily agreed to meet at the theater for an experience sure to be filled with mature delicacies and forbidden foofaraw. However, when I got home from work I discovered that Wife was less than pleased with this plan. She did not want to see the movie. She was vehemently, dare I say hysterically, opposed. She did not care to see a movie that promised the frisson of forbidden etc. She wanted to stay at home to pursue the bibulous arts with her friend J. Fine. Being a master at the art of compromise, and a superlative husband, I said I'd go by myself to meet my sexy single friend at the theater for an evening of frisson etc. This deft solution did not please Wife. She became enraged.

It somehow transpired that she chased me around the dining table, a formidably thick candle brandished in one hand. All was in good fun as we traded barbs and debate points--until the candle flew out of her hand and hit me square in the forehead. Wife apologized at once, claiming she only to meant to bust out a tooth or two. A concussion or brain trauma, she admitted sheepishly, was going too far, even for her.

Dazed, feeling absurdly noble for having suffered undeservedly for Art, I left huffedly. Amy M. greeted me in the theater lobby with sympathy and gentle probing questions.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"I... I ran into a door. No, I was running from Crispin Glover. Yeah, he was on crack cocaine and he broke into our house and wanted me to tell him who was being brushed."

"Come on, Greg. Seriously."

"Actually, I got clocked with a candle. By [Wife]."

Amy M. laughed. She laughed hard. Then she apologized for laughing. Then she started laughing again. Apologized. Laughed. Somewhere during the tedious cycle, I went off to check myself in the mirror at the theater restroom. There I saw my beautiful visage marked with a small red cross, like the kind you see on a bun. When I came back out, Amy was still in the laughing portion of her cycle.

"I'm so sorry, Greg. Really. Ha, ha."

"I suppose this is the one and only example in the history of the world when domestic violence is pretty funny. Let us learn a lesson from this from henceforth."

"Greg, the theater is this way! You're walking into a pile of trash."

"Right, right. I knew that."

As for the movie--which I watched while the knob on my head pulsated and grew like an alien xenomorph--we learned that African American professors sometimes have sexy relations with their sexy white students. But America, being racist and xenomorphic, is not able to handle the truth, so the lubricious scene between the musclar Negro and his lithe waifish dilettante student was censored by a big red box thusly:

I got clocked with a big candle for this?!?! Art = Ripoff.

Also, candles and marriage do not mix.

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Note to Amy M.: Sorry I emphasized the tragic aspects to this story. Next time I'll wear a clown nose.