Petty Revenge

 Here's some food for thought:  in Spanish the word for "wives" is the same word for "handcuffs".  Some snarky son-of-a-gun who had never once in his life washed his own laundry or cooked his own food, probably came up with this term after his wife demanded he come home at a reasonable hour.  "You never let me do anything!" he probably shouted while stomping his little feet against the immaculately cleaned tile floor (he can thank his handcuffs, err, his wife for that).  As he tinkered away at his inventions in his fart-smelling man-cave, he created the very first pair of handcuffs.  A sneaky, wicked little grin spread across his face and he held them up and spoke to the walls as though they were his audience, "I shall name them ESPOSAS!"  After an elongated pause, and frozen stature holding the iron clads up against the waning fire of his oil lamp, he broke into maniacal laughter and danced his way into the moonlight.  And thus petty revenge was born.

Disclaimer:  the above story is not based on any historical events (or is it?!).  It is purely fiction pulled from my hyperactive mind.  Please do not use this on your history report; you WILL get a failing grade.

If my mom tried to kill you it would go something like this

 

    When I started casually going out with guys as a young adult, my mom would never fail to threaten my suitors with insurmountable violence. She would stand at the top of the stairs, looking down menacingly in order to create an imposing impression (and a false appearance of great height), tell them to treat me well and then use her favorite line: “Remember, I’ll get out of jail faster than you’ll get out of the hospital.”

    Her arms would always be crossed and a self-pleased, but slightly cruel smirk would spread across her lips, as if to say “It’s a joke...or is it? Either way, I’m very clever.”

    I’d roll my eyes at the thought of her weak little frame attempting to hurt a grown man. This is a woman who can’t even open a loosened jar lid without assistance. Her weak little hands feebly clasp the lid as grunts of exertion escape her downturned gaping mouth. My mom’s attempt to wring out a washcloth or rag is even more laughable: her meaty little fingers wrapping around the rag applying an amount of pressure that a even a toddler could surpass. Now imagine this pathetic grip around the throat of a 6 foot tall man. She would dangle awkwardly from his throat like an overly optimistic chihuahua (probably perched on a step ladder of sorts) and her “victim” might not even notice her presence, let alone her near-invisible touch.

    When she walks up a single flight of stairs she huffs and she puffs like a fairy-tale wolf, and reaches the top of the stairs with a dramatic wail, as if she had just reached the precipice of Mount Everest despite all odds. If she were in a murdery pursuit of you, the best way to postpone her wrath would be to climb to the top of a 3 story building. You’d reach the top and still have time to sit down, read a book, angrily scroll through your favorite subreddit, review a terrible restaurant, and eat a sandwich, all before meeting your motherly doom.  Then she'd probably try stabbing you with a blunt knife that, thanks to her pathetic grip, would instantaneously slip through her hands the moment she tried applying any force.  You'd exhale a sigh of relief, not because you thought you would actually die, but because you really like this sweater and would hate for it to get a little hole it.

Armchair

"Excuse me" one of my students said as she raised her hand.

"What is an armchair?  Is it a tiny chair where your arms sit?"

And I fucking lost it.