Camille, the Hot Comma Momma is gone.
At this very moment her Grammatical Hotness is south of several borders having slipped all bonds of affection and quite a few of duct tape to launch upon a secret mission deep in the steamy bowels of Central America.1–2
For some people this turn of events comes as no surprise, particularly those who have for years secretly wondered what has kept a woman of such unmitigated foxitude attached to a man like myself.3
Even individuals who are above this sort of relational speculation do not appear to be particularly shocked by her disappearance, having heard her speak for months of her excitement to soon be “off to Nicaragua,” a statement I had always taken rather figuratively.
But now the reality of her absence has hit me like a flaming asteroid, bringing with it the extinction of all my happy delusions.
It seems like only yesterday, after her last disappearance, that I set out to make sure this sort of thing would never happen again. I explored the possibilities of moats, magnets, and bungee cords without any great success. I tried superglue, pheromones, and even subdural GPS tracking chips, all to no avail.
Then I got desperate.
Although I now regret it, I eventually retained the services of one Doctor Harold Toboggans to help me in maintaining my tentative hold on love.
The Doctor is In – Or At Least He Was
I chose him not because he was affordable, or had any experience in spousal containment, but mainly to get him off my doorstep, which in hindsight was probably not the best criteria to use in the selection of a specialist.
He took the job for an exorbitant fee and using arcane methods I lacked both the heart and the courage to investigate, he promptly delivered results: eleven months of continual residence and domestic bliss from my travel-happy wife.
Unfortunately, in the wake of the doctor’s unexplained disappearance the effects of this treatment seem to have evaporated, taking with it any hope I had of reliable Camille confinement.
The strangest part of this entire ordeal for me is the way my wife’s long-delayed departure has revealed the first and possibly only act of billable service performed by Dr. Toboggans.
Which has created a bit of a quandary, causing me to question one of the most fundamental assumptions of my existence:
What if Doctor Harold Toboggans is not the square root of all possible evil?
What if he’s just lonely, and misunderstood, and opportunistic, and incompetent, and supremely pompous, and simply in in need of a hug?
What if I start to miss him?
I’m not sure I’m prepared to live like that.
Hurry home Camille, before I do something I’ll regret.
Don’t not do something you will regret by not clicking on Humor-Blogs.com. Or no, I’ve kind of confused myself at this point.
But I’m sure alltop.com can get it straightened out.
- Somewhere there is an essay begging to be written upon the consistent use of gastrointestinal imagery in postmodern pseudo-intellectual humor. ↩
- one, two, three: not it. ↩
- Duct tape. I mentioned that fact only two sentences ago. One of the sentences was really short. I don’t think it was technically even a sentence. It was more like a word and a period. Seriously, if you can’t even remember that far back then…
Then I may never have to write new content again…
Problem solved, please return to your previously scheduled paragraph.
…Or on second thought, maybe you should start again from the beginning. ↩