Friday, April 29, 2011

My Husband, the Gangster

I live with this guy. 

Some of you are familiar with the type, I'm sure. 

The guy who wasn't really an athlete in high school, but decided at some point in his late 20's to become a weekend warrior.  The guy who, since becoming a weekend warrior, has injured himself more than once in the pursuit of awesomeness.  He forgets that the older he gets the more it's going to hurt and the longer it's going to take to heal.

Tom broke his foot at just about exactly this time of year in 2003, playing basketball with the teenagers across the street.   If you ask him, he'll lament the fact that he injured himself, but be sure to point out the fact that he finished (and won) the game. 


He's generally quiet and reserved, but with an inner rage that is kept bottled up almost all the time.  The most common targets of the rage?  Salespeople and inanimate objects.  My dear husband once yelled at a Blockbuster clerk so loud that I'm pretty sure the kid immediately turned in his resignation.

Then there is the matter of the inanimate objects. 

A few years ago, when we were landscaping the yard, he went and bought a little trellis.  He went to anchor it to the ground and it broke.  He proceeded to beat the crap out of it in clear view of all my neighbors.

I don't bother stopping him.  It's just better that way.

It happens periodically.  I figure it's like the whole weekend warrior thing.  Guys get older, they need to occasionally prove to themselves that they can still compete, can still create, can still destroy.  I don't pretend to understand it, but I try to give him his space when it happens.

Last weekend, he brought up one of the many old computers we have in the basement.  Which, I know, begs the question of why we keep them.  If only I could offer you all a good explanation. 

Anyway, he brought one up in an attempt to resurrect it from the dead.  The kids have been wanting a place to play their games, and I have been wanting them to stop bugging me.  It worked for a few days.

Until last night.  Then it stopped. 

He tried all his tricks to get it to work.  He even yelled at it and smacked the side of it a few times...which somehow almost always works for him.

No go.

Then he got angry.  And he hit it.  A few times. 


Then he got really mad at it.  Picked it up, opened the sliding glass door, and launched it into the yard.  He then proceeded to go all office space on it.  For those of you who haven't seen the movie, please do so.  If you've ever worked in an office setting, you will totally get it. 

One of the all-time funniest movie scenes ever here.

After he was done destroying the computer, he picked up the pieces and threw them away.

I asked him if he was satisfied.  He grinned, then cradled his right hand with his left.  I asked him if he hurt himself again.  He said no.  It was fine.

We sat down to eat dinner and I watched his hand swelling and turning colors.  Sent him to the ER, where they told him after a few hours that it was just bruised, sent him home.   But not before he received several compliments on his Dunder Mifflin shirt.  Yes, he is mine, ladies. 

Then I got a phone call from the radiologist today.  Just kidding.  One of the bones is chipped.

Good job, honey.

The tennis league that is supposed to start next week?  Not happening. 

He might have hurt himself, but I'm sure he'll tell you that he taught that computer a lesson too.

And really, isn't that what is important?

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

He's just going to be a gangster in a splint for a few weeks.

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