Things My Girlfriend and I Argue About

[johnnya24]

For some unknown reason this blog from 10+ years ago sprung to mind. No clue why. One of the funniest things I've read on the internet over the years.

English journalist / writer, married to psychotic German woman ... hilarity ensues.

http://mil-millington.com/

Our sink is blue and we're not talking about it. It happened over a week ago; I was leaning over the sink, brushing my teeth, when I noticed that there was a sort of lazuline patina that had seeped over most of the surface. Margret hasn't mentioned anything about this. Why she hasn't is that she's obviously tried to clean the sink with, well, I don't know, some fluid used for stripping entrenched cerriped colonies from the hulls of submarines or something (they were probably offering three bottles of the stuff for the price of two at Aldi). She is waiting for me to mention it. But I am a wily fox, and will be doing nothing of the sort. I'm no wet-behind-the-ears, naive youth anymore, not by a looooong way, and I can perfectly see the spiked pit the seemingly innocent words, 'Did you know the sink's blue' are covering. It would go - precisely - like this:

Me: Did you know the sink's blue?
Margret: Yes. I did. I used a jungle exfoliant produced by the Taiwanese military to clean it, and it discoloured the surface.
Me: Oooooooo. K.
Margret: Well maybe, just maybe, if you cleaned the sink once in a while...

You see what she did there? Now I'm facing a whole day of 'When did you last...?' Well, not this canny fellow - not this time, my friends. Our sink is blue and we're not talking about it.

[johnnya24]

Some more bits:

We went to hire a van last week. Margret had phoned and arranged everything and I was there simply because we arrived in one vehicle but had to return in two. As I think I've mentioned before, I am not interested in motor vehicles and know less about them than the average four year old child. If people ask me what car we've got I reply, 'A red one.' I can drive OK, just as I can operate a photocopier perfectly well but feel no need at all to be able to recognise the make of each one from a distance or to look at magazines full of pictures of the latest models. Margret, of course, has an encyclopaedic knowledge and will point excitedly at traffic and say stuff like, 'Hey, look - there's the new-style, five door Fiat Tampon,' or something while I sit unable to care less. So, anyway, we've gone to pick up this van and the bloke there - open shirt, riotous body hair, multiple gold chains - starts telling me about it. Starts telling me about it, despite the fact that Margret has gone in and begun the conversation, while I just shuffled along behind her. He keeps talking to me about stuff.

'Yeah, this is the 2 litre model...'
'Mmmm...' I nod, noncommittally, as I have no idea what he's talking about - ('2 litre'? What's that? The amount of petrol it can hold?)
'There is a 3 litre, V6 version, of course - but...' He laughs.
'Hahaha,' I echo his laugh weakly in response; my 'V' knowledge having stopped at the Nazi WWII rocket the V2.

Margret keeps cutting in with questions about technical things. He answers to me, without looking at her. I can feel her starting to sizzle. (The sole question I've been able to come up with has been 'Um... Eh... Has it got a radio?')

I'm completely innocent here. In fact, I'm terrified he's going to corner me by saying something like 'Do you favour ABS or not?' and I'll just burst into tears. I can see, however, that Margret is approaching the point where she's going to be unable to prevent herself from disembowelling him before standing over his torn body with her bloodied hands outstretched, howling to the sky. That's his problem, but I sense she also regards me as his tacit accomplice. I have to get Margret away before he sets her off and I get caught in the explosion.

As we were in a rush, I managed to get out of the office and put over 300 miles between Bloke and Margret as quickly as possible (I'd have liked to insert more distance, of course, but we were beginning to run out of Britain). Still, it's gnawed at her stomach for well over a week now and the only way it's been kept under control has been by constantly rerunning variations of:

Margret: 'He was talking to you. To you - it's unbelievable.'
Me: 'Yes, he was an idiot. Because he was talking to me. And I'm an idiot. He revealed his idiocy by talking to me, an obvious idiot. He was an idiot. Forget about him. The idiot. He was an idiot. That's right... just give me the fork now.'

[dslaw]

Got tears in my eyes from some of these stories. Good thing the boss is out of town and didn't stop by my office.

[Fresno Bob]

threesomes....

[DMT]

Hilarious