I’m Here For The Wives
I’ve found, through trial and error, that the best way to feel melancholy is a quart of tequila, some Four Aces sherry, and a gram of crystal meth mixed with a couple of black Kashmir hash brownies dipped in powdered quaaludes.
And it’s times like this that I sit and look out the window and wonder.
I wonder how the players’ wives are doing.
Are they comfortable?
Or are they feeling down because their husbands are always fishing or at the golf course?
I want them to know that I’m thinking of them, and if I can round up a big house somewhere, they’re all welcome to come over and we’ll light candles and listen to Miles Davis, and if they feel any discomfort anywhere, they can tell me and I’ll massage it.
Women love good listeners, and I can pretend to be one of the best. I’ll listen so intently, my eyes will glaze over. And if they want to model clothes they’ve brought just in case they decide to have a pajama party, I’ll watch and compliment and take close-up pictures, if that’s what they like.
If it’ll help them sleep better, I’ll go for a midnight swim with them. And yes, if they want to wrestle, I’ll do that too.
I want the wives to be comfortable.
It’s all about them.