My Brother is Dead To Me (Dumbass Married Ren)

By Roode-

Let me start this off by telling you that I HAD two brothers.  I am the middle child and, therefore, the most well-adjusted.  My older brother, Greg, is an uptight douche bag with a uber responsible job, a family and a dog.  Or, is it a dog and a family.  I’m not sure how that goes.  We’re from Alberta, so a dog ranks a little higher than a spouse and children.  It’s a law, actually.

There is NO WAY this thing will protect your home or retrieve a downed pheasant.

My younger brother and the weakest of the herd, Gene, has a section in his brain where all the surviving brain cells hid from the alcohol and pot holocaust waged through his grey matter for four straight years at the University of Calgary.  A bunker if you will.

Sure, he has the demigod-esq genes all we Roodes have been blessed with; physique of granite, extreme sexual prowess- unmatched by mere mortals, and well, let’s just say our junk has been studied by the finest sexologists for generations.  To this day, it is unexplained how the Roode men have achieved the perfect combination of girth and length..  never mind, it would take too long to explain and require a lot of charts to do it correctly.

The Censors made us block the signature Roode phallus, hence the need for an extra large censor box.

All that aside, Gene, has never been a bright man.  At least when it came to women.  Like all Roodes, he would control the situation with his Zeus-esq presence and Captain James T. Kirk-like knack for seducing women without really trying.

No worries, ladies. The uncontrollable need to get naked for me is natural.

When it came to female mind games, he didn’t fare so well.  Using their voodoo magic, the girls would infiltrate his mind and rummage through it like a box of second-hand clothes at a flea market.  He would do shit like listen to their stories, open doors for them, surprise them with roses…   FOR NO REASON!  I mean, come on!  Roses don’t make an appearance until after you’ve accidentally set fire to her car.

Probably should pop for the full dozen after this.

Then he meets Ren.  I’ve made it a point to avoid her like the  blonde banana sandwich crazy Irish nutjob plague.  This is especially true when there’s family around.  She’s like a virus.  Sure, at first she’s harmless enough; being all cute and hot and funny.  Then, next thing you know she’s hanging from your gutters wearing a bicycle helmet screaming the lyrics to Rollins Band‘s “Liar.”

Yet, somehow her version is a lot more disturbing.

I was too late to prevent Gene’s lethal dose of Ren radiation.  I can only liken it to the Chernobyl disaster, except instead of a reactor meltdown, it’s a batshit crazy blonde’s goofy ass radiation poisoning.  There is no known defense against this.  Lead, concrete, the English, none of them can protect you from the damaging radiation particles of the little elf.  Even a small dosage is life threatening.  The longer you’re exposed the more lethal the dose.  Instead of skin lesions, internal organ liquefaction, and constantly shitting yourself you are hit with blind devotion, catering to her every need, and..  constantly shitting yourself.

Most scientists agree that, one shouldn't date radioactive material, no matter how sexy she is.

Ignoring ever primitive instinct for survival, my brother came down with a mortal dose of Ren sickness.  He was beyond the point of no return.  He was a goner.  The patient exhibited symptoms such as:  calling her every night, taking her out for dinner, a shit-eating grin and thousand yard stare every time some one mentioned Ren’s name.  He was dying before my very eyes!

What is this holding hands bullshit?

It’s one thing if Gene wanted to kill himself with drunken Mick poison.  It’s another thing to expose your entire family to it.  It’s pretty much a Typhoid Mary scenario.  Why keep the disease to yourself when you can share it with EVERYONE?  If we use the radiation poisoning example from above, it’s like bringing a white-hot piece of reactor core to a family reunion, then using it to hold the napkins down.  Fuck man, might as well just killed our family outright.

Even Capone had the decency to line his enemies up and shoot them. He didn't torture them to death with a little blonde nightmare.

Then, as the little Irish psychopath mentions here, they went to Las Vegas and got hitched.  That’s like just letting the icy waters of the Bearing Sea suck you in.  No resistance.  No will to go on.  Nope, just one big, “fuck it” before you drown and end up passing through some fish’s colon.

OK, fine.  He married this midget on crack.  He wants to flush you life down the crapper, feel free.  So he’s shown a complete disregard for our family by bringing that blonde pile of crazy home. Great.  So now she is officially and lawfully related to me.  What the fuck ever.  I’ve been married for over a decade.  I’m already dead inside.

In the end, I’ll have the last laugh.  His carefree days are over.  He’s done.  Remember when  you were confident, Gene?  Your smug ass self- assuredness and wonder-machismo is coming to an end.  Want to hear why?

Get ready for a bitch of a storm, asshat.

Congratulations!  You are married to a hottie!  Does that sound like a compliment?  It’s not thumper-dumper.  That whole glow of happiness and pride will eventually give way to a constant storm of paranoia.  It’s not easy being married to some fine eye candy.  Trust me, brother, I know.  My wife is smoking hot.  Gorgeous!  Humpalicious!

Not to be confused with the Humpty Dance.

It’s pretty easy to see the upside of being married to a sexy woman:  class reunion envy, getting out of speeding tickets, and never having to wait in line.  But, no one talks about the downside.  The tragic, soul-crushing downside.  Since I am the best big brother in known history, I’ll hip you to a few “unadvertised” side effects of being married to a top shelf honey.  Get a pad of paper and a pen.  You’ll want to take some notes.

DANGER!

1.  Next to her, you will ALWAYS look like a retarded ogre.  

I’m not talking Shrek, either.  That green sonnabitch doesn’t count.  That’s just Disney bullshit. This is more like the dude from Mask.

Bingo.

No matter what you do, what duds you don, or how buff you get your hot wife will forever outshine you.  Don’t think this is a problem?  Wait until you fade away from the visual spectrum of everyone on the planet.  It’s only a matter of time before you’re mistaken for the help.

"I'm the husband, for fuck's sake! Stop handing me luggage!"

2.  You will have to play goalie in public

What’s that mean?  Think about it; stunning sexy wife and a husband with a permanent look of “what the fuck?” on his face.  Every sweaty ball sack with a case of wood will surround your wife like jackals in the wild.

"So, uh, can we buy you a drink?"

Hormone filled college frat boys will endlessly eye-hump your wife.  Every now and again, one will try to be smooth and hit on her when you’re taking a piss or shaking down a midget for some cash.  “Wedding ring?  Come on, baby.  It’s the new millennium.  I’ve seen some Grey’s Anatomy.  I know how it goes down.”

Fuck you, Grey's Anatomy! Fuck you so hard!

This is when you pick up the stick and start blocking slap shot after slap shot of douchbaggery.  Eye-humping?  That’s a check, motherfucker.  Smiling at her?  That’s a stick to the gut.  Get handsy with her and that’s an all out fucking throw down on the ice!

I play for keeps, shit stick.

*Note:  Don’t send me emails telling me this is a trust issue.  “If I could trust my wife not to bend over in the men’s room this wouldn’t be a problem.”  Eat a dick.  This has nothing to do with trust.  I trust my wife implicitly.  I’m still not going to leave her in a sea of sperminators while I take a jaunty stroll.

3.  Paranoia:  Fearing that she may, one day, realise she’s way out of your league

Those of us married to hot looking dames know that we’re hanging on by a thread.  One day, your beautiful bride will realise that a fine piece of ass, like her, and a Mongoloid that can barely work a touch-tone doesn’t work on paper.  Maybe it’s because you have a tendency to get rip-roaring drunk and punch your waiter in the throat?  Possibly, it’s due to you coming home with one shoe and half your head shaved…  again.  It may even be the constant explanations she needs to give to her friends for any of the stupid shit you do.  It’s all going to contribute to her moment of clarity.

"Wait a minute, I'm hot! What am I doing with Rain Man?"

How do you hold onto a woman like that?  What can a man do to prevent his fine mama from putting two and two together and posing for Playboy (oops, too late for Gene) and upgrading to George Clooney-grade leading men?

Lots and lots of this shit. Although, Ren has an inhuman tolerance for alcohol. Might want to invest in some opiates.

PS:  I, Roode, fully acknowledge that all the Roode men have married up.  There!  Are you happy now?

*Disclaimer:  FWTC does not advocate the drugging and/or stringing out your hot ass wife to prevent her from seeing your glaring stupidity and James Carville looks.  But, do what you want.  We don’t give a shit, you sick fuck.

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Posted on July 15, 2011, in Alcohol, Family, Life Lessons, Observations and aggravations, Roode Notes and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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