Ready to Murder my Boyfriend – JUSTIFIABLY!

After this terrifying (yet hilarious) night, I just might murder my boyfriend -- JUSTIFIABLY.  #humor #boyfriend #cops #terror #funny

So then…I shout, “Fine!”

And then he shouts, “FINE!” — slams the door, gets in his car, and drives to work.

I seethe.

We’re in the middle of a big argument and he bails just to go to work? Where are his priorities?

He works at night, so it’s already dark out. I head to the kitchen.

I’m so mad at him, I can barely eat dinner. But it’s pasta and chocolate chip cookies, so I suffer through. In fact, I’m such a martyr, I suffer through several helpings.

I replay the argument in my head.

I was being logical, reasonable, rational – raising excellent points and substantiating them with clear, concise examples.

He was being a jerkfacemonkeybutt.

Normally we get along fine – we’ve been living together awhile now – we’re in our 30’s with good jobs, a decent house, and a pretty chill lifestyle – we’re laidback and laugh a lot.

But when he’s being a jerkfacemonkeybutt, I find him to be insufferable and quickly catalog every tiny thing about him that drives me insane.

As I walk through the house putting away the laundry, I notice things like:

This is the stupidest shirt ever. Why does he wear this shirt?
Seriously, can he not put his dishes IN the dishwasher instead of the sink?
I suppose the trash can was just too far away for this soda can.
Why is his golf club IN the house? That’s stupid. He’s stupid.
Ugh, look at his shoes. His shoes are annoying me.

I watch TV. I note how all the boyfriends on TV are so much better, nicer, funnier, smarter, and sweeter than my boyfriend.

I do a little paperwork, polish off the last cookies, and head down the hallway to the bedroom.

Just then I hear a loud THUMP CRASH!

My heart stops. I freeze.

It’s close to midnight. He’s not due back til 2:00 am. I’m not expecting any visitors.

What the hell was that?

Is someone out there?

I had whirled around when I heard the noise, so my legs and arms are all akimbo in the hallway – but I’m literally frozen solid like a fossilized dinosaur mid-run when the glacial apocalypse hits.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My heart is hammering.

I muster up my courage and dart toward the sound. The front door is WIDE OPEN.

WIDE OPEN TO THE BIG BLACK SCARY NIGHT.

I rush to slam it shut and lock it.

I lean against it, breathing hard, arms spread out against the door to keep the bad guys out.

Oh shit, what if they are already inside and I just locked them in here with me?

Panic!

I run to the kitchen for a huge knife and the portable phone.

Do I search the house?
They might be hiding somewhere inside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
Do I run to my car in the driveway?
There might be more of them outside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
I’m surrounded!

I pause in the kitchen holding the knife in front of me — leaning forward, concentrating fiercely to try to hear where they are.

Outside, I hear rustling – are they trying to get in the house – or is the wind whipping the tree branches and leaves around?  Are coyotes out there?

Inside I hear creaking – are they walking around – or is this old house settling?

More rustling — more snapping, crackling – are those footsteps? Is someone banging on the window?

I’m seriously in a panic. I have no choice. I have to call 911.

“Hi um I’m really scared I think someone’s trying to get in my house or maybe they’re already IN my house and I’m all alone and it’s pitch black out there and I keep hearing them trying to get in the house! I don’t know any of my neighbors. I’m afraid to leave and afraid to stay. Can you please send someone just to check to make sure no one is here? I’m really scared. I’m all alone! Did I say that? Did I say I’m alone? I’m really freaked out!!”

The dispatcher takes my address, asks a few questions, and says she’ll send a squad car over to make sure nobody’s trying to break in.

I position myself halfway between the front door and the back door, so I can make a quick escape, depending on the direction I’m attacked. I brandish the butcher knife in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting for the police to arrive. I dare not move in any direction. I am frozen.

I wait and wait and wait.

I could be dead by now. Seriously dead. What the hell, police officers? It doesn’t take much time to murder someone – I could be long dead by the time you get here.

Out of desperation — I call jerkfacemonkeybutt. I wail into the phone about the people trying to murder me – and infuse my tale with an accusatory tone since clearly it’s HIS fault that I’m in this predicament. Not sure how exactly, but damn sure, nonetheless.

He tries to calm me down and says he’ll come right home from work.

About 20 minutes later, he comes in the front door.

I’m still standing in the same spot, eyes WIDE and WILD, knife hand thrust forward, phone hand near my ear.

He advances to give me a hug. My face recoils, my knife hand waves him off.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s already forgotten all about our earlier argument. He’s like that.

He always says men are like microwaves – they get mad – then zap, it’s over. Women are like crockpots, simmering and stewing that anger all.day.long. He’s right – I’ve been simmering and stewing and sweating here in the same spot, my Safety Spot, literally terrified to go anywhere or do anything until the police come to verify no one’s breaking into my house!!

I don’t even deign to answer the question about what’s wrong.

He quickly searches the house and reports back that no one else is here.
He says it doesn’t look like anyone’s tampered with the doors or windows.

“The door was WIDE OPEN! WIDE.OPEN! Someone OPENED the door! And they’re out there still! They’ve been making noises and banging all night! ALL NIGHT! I want the COPS to check this whole place out!!! YOU don’t know what to look for! The COPS will find them!!”

Full-out high-pitched hysteria.

He knows well enough to quietly sit down and wait it out with me.

After a few tense moments, he asks, “When did you call the police?”

“Almost 45 minutes ago! And they’re still not here! I could be dead by now! DEAD!!”

“Huh. That’s a long time.” He grins. “You shoulda called Dominos Pizza. They’d be here in 30 minutes or less.”

I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL HIM RIGHT NOW.
I WILL BASH HIS SKULL IN WITH THIS PHONE AND STAB HIM IN THE GROIN WITH THIS KNIFE.
THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER.

I glare at him with such pure loathing, that stupid grin slides right off his stupid face.

The doorbell rings.

The cops are here!

THANK GOD!

They’ll search the premises – and check the perimeter – and find evidence that vicious criminals were trying to break into my house – and secure the area so no one can ever harm us!!

I rush from my Safety Spot to open the door. “You’re finally here!” I exclaim.

Two weary cops stand there. One says, “Yeah, sorry it took us so long to get here. The winds are so strong in the Valley tonight, we’ve been answering calls all over the place about doors blowing open. So what’s your situation here?”

***
Oh.my.freaking.God.

I can FEEL my boyfriend behind me, laughing his ass off INTERNALLY. He’s not uttering a sound, but his shoulders are shaking that telltale sign of inner mirth.

And if these cops were not standing right in front of me, I swear I would stab him immediately and repeatedly. And I would not feel one tiny bit of remorse.

I’d just fling the bloody knife to the floor with a flourish – like a rock star drops his mic – then shout “Peace out” – and drive to the store for more cookies.

— Darcy Perdu

Laugh at all my new posts by subscribing HERE!
I LOVE SUBSCRIBERS!

(Have you ever scared yourself absolutely silly? Any funny cop stories to share? Can YOU catalog all the annoying things about your significant other right after an argument?)

What the Hell Just HIT Me?

What the Hell Just Hit Me
So then…the music soars to a crescendo as the actors scurry about the Broadway stage — which my boyfriend and I can see perfectly from our fantastic theatre seats.

Just as we’re experiencing the spectacular re-enactment of the Fall of Saigon, something comes hurtling off the stage and hits me square in the chest.

I am stunned.

I feel around on the dark theatre floor but cannot locate the offending object. I look to my left, my right. No one looks aghast. They stare straight ahead.

Did I imagine that assault? I could swear something came right off that stage and hit me and…oh, wow, look at that building go up in flames! and a helicopter is taking off! and now the villagers are running amok!…this IS spectacular…

As we walk back to the hotel, we talk about how amazing the show is.

After several over-priced cocktails in the lobby bar, we go up to our hotel room and my boyfriend sexily swaggers over to me – although, frankly, it’s more like a stagger than a swagger –

and he whispers, “Comeer, you Hatamala,” which I first assumed was some new Asian nickname, inspired by our recent viewing of the revival of the “Miss Saigon” Musical, but soon realize was meant to be: “Come here, you Hot Tamale,” which is not only not in keeping with tonight’s Asian theme, but somewhat of a misnomer since I don’t personally possess any Latin blood.

My tipsy and yet still appealing boyfriend, continues his sweet-talking/slurring, wraps an arm around me, kisses me, then quite expertly unbuttons my blouse with his free hand. It appears the liquor has affected his diction more than his dexterity. It is going to be a good night.

Then he shrieks. And I don’t mean a manly shriek, like the kind that should come from a strong, strapping man of 6 feet like my boyfriend. I mean a high-pitched shrill of a shriek, reminiscent of a high society grande dame experiencing her first bikini wax.

“What?! What?!” I shout.

He points to my chest with considerable fear, and no small amount of revulsion. And there, on my chest, is a HUGE blue bruise with purple tentacles shooting out in all directions!

So now I shriek. I run to the mirror to get a better look at the mass and hue of this enormous skin condition, when it hits me – yes, hits me – just like I was hit not two hours ago in the theatre! I knew it! I knew something had hit me!

I turn to my boyfriend, who is anxiously seeking solace in the minibar’s mini bottles, and I exclaim: “Somesing in zee shoo hit my chezz, my chezz!” (Given my Irish heritage, I can only assume my current French accent is a temporary side effect of the over-priced lobby cocktails.) And yet, my boyfriend seems to understand exactly what I am saying, as slurring is the universal language of all inebriated.

So he calls the hotel operator and asks to be connected to the “Miss Saigon” theatre, which takes some time to communicate since the operator’s obviously not had the benefit of the afore-mentioned lobby cocktails, rendering her unfamiliar with our language.

Finally, we get through to the theatre stage manager and I say, in my most sober and nonchalant voice, “Didja happen to lose any props in tonight’s shoo?”

Pause.

“Why do you ask?” he says.

Aha! I knew it! That’s a clear admission of guilt!

“Calm down!” he says. (It’s at this point I realize I have spoken that accusation out loud.)

“My chezz has a HUGE bruise onnit! I wuzz hit by somesing from your stage!” I proclaim.

“Oh. Well, during the Saigon battle scene, we tie sandbags on the propellers of the helicopter to keep the blades from shooting out and…well, two of the sandbags are missing.”

“Missing!?”

“Yes, apparently, one flew off and hit a lady in the leg and I guess the other one hit you in the chezz…chest. We’ll gladly pay for the doctor visit. We’re really sorr—“

“What did the other lady say?”

“She said she’s fine, but the incident distracted her from enjoying the show. So we’re giving her free tickets to see it again.”

Pause.

I sober instantly.

I spout forth: “Four tickets. Backstage pass. Autographed program. And double-knot the sandbags this time!”

— Darcy Perdu

Please pop your email address into the Purple Box below so you can receive funny NEW posts twice a week!

(Yep, true story. Thank God only the sandbags came shooting off stage and not the propeller blades!! However, we had to get back home to LA, so I gave the free tix to my boyfriend’s NY relatives. So how about YOU? Ever had something odd happen – then a theatre, restaurant, hotel, company, etc. had to make it up to you? Any funny stories about shows, concerts, plays? Do tell in the Comments Section!)
What the Hell Just Hit Me

Super Bad? More like SUPER MAD!

Super Bad More Like SUPER MAD
So then…I shout, “Fine!”

And then he shouts, “FINE!” — slams the door, gets in his car, and drives to work.

I seethe.

We’re in the middle of a big argument and he bails just to go to work? Where are his priorities?

He works at night, so it’s already dark out. I head to the kitchen.

I’m so mad at him, I can barely eat dinner. But it’s pasta and chocolate chip cookies, so I suffer through. In fact, I’m such a martyr, I suffer through several helpings.

I replay the argument in my head.

I was being logical, reasonable, rational – raising excellent points and substantiating them with clear, concise examples.

He was being a jerkfacemonkeybutt.

Normally we get along fine – we’ve been living together awhile now – we’re in our 30’s with good jobs, a decent house, and a pretty chill lifestyle – we’re laidback and laugh a lot.

But when he’s being a jerkfacemonkeybutt, I find him to be insufferable and quickly catalog every tiny thing about him that drives me insane.

As I walk through the house putting away the laundry, I notice things like:

This is the stupidest shirt ever. Why does he wear this shirt?
Seriously, can he not put his dishes IN the dishwasher instead of the sink?
I suppose the trash can was just too far away for this soda can.
Why is his golf club IN the house? That’s stupid. He’s stupid.
Ugh, look at his shoes. His shoes are annoying me.

I watch TV. I note how all the boyfriends on TV are so much better, nicer, funnier, smarter, and sweeter than my boyfriend.

I do a little paperwork, polish off the last cookies, and head down the hallway to the bedroom.

Just then I hear a loud THUMP CRASH!

My heart stops. I freeze.

It’s close to midnight. He’s not due back til 2:00 am. I’m not expecting any visitors.

What the hell was that?

Is someone out there?

I had whirled around when I heard the noise, so my legs and arms are all akimbo in the hallway – but I’m literally frozen solid like a fossilized dinosaur mid-run when the glacial apocalypse hits.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My heart is hammering.

I muster up my courage and dart toward the sound. The front door is WIDE OPEN.

WIDE OPEN TO THE BIG BLACK SCARY NIGHT.

I rush to slam it shut and lock it.

I lean against it, breathing hard, arms spread out against the door to keep the bad guys out.

Oh shit, what if they are already inside and I just locked them in here with me?

Panic!

I run to the kitchen for a huge knife and the portable phone.

Do I search the house?
They might be hiding somewhere inside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
Do I run to my car in the driveway?
There might be more of them outside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
I’m surrounded!

I pause in the kitchen holding the knife in front of me — leaning forward, concentrating fiercely to try to hear where they are.

Outside, I hear rustling – are they trying to get in the house – or is the wind whipping the tree branches and leaves around?  Are coyotes out there?

Inside I hear creaking – are they walking around – or is this old house settling?

More rustling — more snapping, crackling – are those footsteps? Is someone banging on the window?

I’m seriously in a panic. I have no choice. I have to call 911.

“Hi um I’m really scared I think someone’s trying to get in my house or maybe they’re already IN my house and I’m all alone and it’s pitch black out there and I keep hearing them trying to get in the house! I don’t know any of my neighbors. I’m afraid to leave and afraid to stay. Can you please send someone just to check to make sure no one is here? I’m really scared. I’m all alone! Did I say that? Did I say I’m alone? I’m really freaked out!!”

The dispatcher takes my address, asks a few questions, and says she’ll send a squad car over to make sure nobody’s trying to break in.

I position myself halfway between the front door and the back door, so I can make a quick escape, depending on the direction I’m attacked. I brandish the butcher knife in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting for the police to arrive. I dare not move in any direction. I am frozen.

I wait and wait and wait.

I could be dead by now. Seriously dead. What the hell, police officers? It doesn’t take much time to murder someone – I could be long dead by the time you get here.

Out of desperation — I call jerkfacemonkeybutt. I wail into the phone about the people trying to murder me – and infuse my tale with an accusatory tone since clearly it’s HIS fault that I’m in this predicament. Not sure how exactly, but damn sure, nonetheless.

He tries to calm me down and says he’ll come right home from work.

About 20 minutes later, he comes in the front door.

I’m still standing in the same spot, eyes WIDE and WILD, knife hand thrust forward, phone hand near my ear.

He advances to give me a hug. My face recoils, my knife hand waves him off.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s already forgotten all about our earlier argument. He’s like that.

He always says men are like microwaves – they get mad – then zap, it’s over. Women are like crockpots, simmering and stewing that anger all.day.long. He’s right – I’ve been simmering and stewing and sweating here in the same spot, my Safety Spot, literally terrified to go anywhere or do anything until the police come to verify no one’s breaking into my house!!

I don’t even deign to answer the question about what’s wrong.

He quickly searches the house and reports back that no one else is here.
He says it doesn’t look like anyone’s tampered with the doors or windows.

“The door was WIDE OPEN! WIDE.OPEN! Someone OPENED the door! And they’re out there still! They’ve been making noises and banging all night! ALL NIGHT! I want the COPS to check this whole place out!!! YOU don’t know what to look for! The COPS will find them!!”

Full-out high-pitched hysteria.

He knows well enough to quietly sit down and wait it out with me.

After a few tense moments, he asks, “When did you call the police?”

“Almost 45 minutes ago! And they’re still not here! I could be dead by now! DEAD!!”

“Huh. That’s a long time.” He grins. “You shoulda called Dominos Pizza. They’d be here in 30 minutes or less.”

I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL HIM RIGHT NOW.
I WILL BASH HIS SKULL IN WITH THIS PHONE AND STAB HIM IN THE GROIN WITH THIS KNIFE.
THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER.

I glare at him with such pure loathing, that stupid grin slides right off his stupid face.

The doorbell rings.

The cops are here!

THANK GOD!

They’ll search the premises – and check the perimeter – and find evidence that vicious criminals were trying to break into my house – and secure the area so no one can ever harm us!!

I rush from my Safety Spot to open the door. “You’re finally here!” I exclaim.

Two weary cops stand there. One says, “Yeah, sorry it took us so long to get here. The winds are so strong in the Valley tonight, we’ve been answering calls all over the place about doors blowing open. So what’s your situation here?”

***
Oh.my.freaking.God.

I can FEEL my boyfriend behind me, laughing his ass off INTERNALLY. He’s not uttering a sound, but his shoulders are shaking that telltale sign of inner mirth.

And if these cops were not standing right in front of me, I swear I would stab him immediately and repeatedly. And I would not feel one tiny bit of remorse.

I’d just fling the bloody knife to the floor with a flourish – like a rock star hurls his microphone – then shout “Peace out” – and drive to the store for more cookies.

— Darcy Perdu

Laugh at all my new posts by subscribing HERE!
I LOVE SUBSCRIBERS!

(Have you ever scared yourself absolutely silly? Any funny or embarrassing cop stories to share? And can YOU catalog all the annoying things about your significant other right after you have an argument? Do share in the Comments section!)

Biker Beauty?

So then…I swoop down the hill on my bike, zipping through the bike path at Mason Park, and just as I gracefully glide around a massive oak tree, I see him again. My lips can’t help curving into a smile as I recognize the sleek blue car with the attractive dark-haired guy behind the wheel glancing at me admiringly.

And why shouldn’t he? I ain’t no supermodel, but damn, I’m looking good! Birthin’ two babies in the past couple years sent my body weight careening into Orson Wellsian proportions, so I frantically adopted the advice of every weight-loss guru since the beginning of time: “Eat Less, Move More.”

I’m pretty proud to reach my pre-pregnancy weight (minus 5 lbs), so yes, I am wearing a bikini top with tight little biker shorts. And my daily bike rides in the California sun have tanned my long limbs a lovely warm brown. So I’m a little flattered that Sleek Blue Car Guy has driven past me a few times at the park.

As I’m loading my bike onto the back of my car, he drives over and says, “Hey, you’re pretty cute. Do you have a boyfriend?”

Suddenly I flashback to another guy who said the exact same thing to me a few years ago at this very park. I hadn’t had kids yet, but I was married, so when a fellow bike rider stopped me to say, “Hey, you’re pretty cute. Do you have a boyfriend?” I said, “Oh, not only do I have a boyfriend — I have a husband!” (I meant that a husband was even more serious than a boyfriend, so I really couldn’t go out with Nice Bike Rider guy.) But the guy jokingly interpreted it that I had BOTH a boyfriend AND a husband, so he laughed and said, “Oh, well, you must be really busy – I guess you don’t have time for me too?” And we both laughed and waved and rode our separate ways into the sunset – him feeling proud of his witty remark – and me feeling flattered to have attracted his interest in the first place.

So now, as I’m faced with a similar situation – and in fact, the same question, I smile and cleverly say, “Oh, not only do I have a boyfriend — I have a husband – and two kids!”

The car guy looks at me, frowns, and says, “Jeez, I didn’t ask for your whole life story.”

And he speeds off.

Oh.My.God.

I stand here totally deflated.

I was trying to reject him in a graceful, witty way – and he rejected me!! Instead of feeling flattered, now I’m feeling guilty that I bored him with my verbose personal history!

But I mean really, I only said 15 words! Was I really imposing on his time so much as I conveyed my “whole life story?” I want to yell at his receding bumper, “YOU stalked ME for half an hour, you jerk!”

I turn to my car and pull the last strap in place for my bike. I console myself with the thought that Car Guy was probably just looking for naïve women to fall for his line so he could sell them into the Serbian sex slave trade.

In which case, I’m glad I’m married and have two kids. I don’t even like baklava.

So there.

— Darcy Perdu

(Heard any good pick-up lines? Any gentle rejections? Share your stories of first meetings or awkward over-sharing in the Comments Section!)

Madcapping Adventure

Madcapping Adventure
So then…I fake a ghastly gastro-intestinal malady to exit work early, grab a cab to my apartment, and throw together a couple ensembles appropriate for the flash and dazzle of Vegas. Hey, why spend a lonesome weekend in my New York apartment when I can surprise my boyfriend on his business trip at a big casino hotel?

I board the flight with much excitement. Here I am, madcap gal, flitting cross-country for the weekend! I am spontaneous! I am wild! I am…actually…exhausted. How long is this flight? Finally, I land in Sin City, ready to Sin. In the lobby, I call my boyfriend’s hotel room but no one answers. Hmm. Perhaps surprising him was not such a good idea after all. I call again. Still no answer. I had not planned on this.

Plan? Plan? Madcap gals do not plan!

So I charge over to the registration desk and request a key for my “husband’s” room, certain he’d be pleased with the instant promotion. And wonder of wonders, the clerk gives it to me! I’m amazed he does not require documentation of some kind before so blithely passing over a hotel key! But hey, this is Vegas.

I zip down the hall, eager to freshen up before searching for my soon-to-be-surprised paramour. But as I approach the door to his room, I hear voices. My key poised just above the lock, I pause. There is only one reason you do not answer your hotel room phone when you are in your hotel room.

Oh…my…God. He’s in there with some blonde blackjack dealer. He is having sex. He is…shooting guns. Shooting guns? Wait. Car crash. Sirens. Oh, thank God. It’s the TV! He left the TV on! I quickly enter the empty room. What was I thinking? He would never shoot guns while having sex.

So I look in the mirror, as I am wont to do occasionally, OK, frequently, OK, obsessively. And I notice that the cross-country trip and near brush with infidelity have taken a toll. If I hurry, I can shower and change before my boyfriend returns to his room. Then I can surprise him in clean and glowing splendor.

I strip, rush into the bathroom, slide open the glass shower door, and — CRASH! It smashes into a million shards of glass. Good grief! I didn’t slam it! Now what? I survey the pile of jagged glass. My boyfriend could return to his room at any minute. I can either notify the front desk…or I can succumb to vanity and take a shower anyway.

Cut to: Me showering, gingerly tiptoeing on bath towels covering the broken glass.

Hair dryer. Curling iron. Make-up. Gold-spangled mini dress. I lift the towels to survey the damage, nicking my finger in the process. Damn. Blood on the bath rug, the mini dress, and the curling iron.

OK, now how do I deal with the fact that I broke the hotel’s shower door – AND I’m not even supposed to be in his room in the first place? How much do shower doors cost anyway?

Not feeling so madcap now. Descending in elevator. Descending in mood.

BRAINSTORM! I march over to the front desk and demand the front desk manager’s attention post-haste. “I almost killed myself in your shower!” I exclaim. “Your door shattered into a million pieces and look – the glass slashed my finger!” I thrust my nicked finger in his face, wincing with pain, while still maintaining my accusatory glare. “My husband is NOT going to be happy when he hears about this!”

Cut to: Me, supervising the bellmen packing and moving all my boyfriend’s belongings to our new (and complimentary) hotel suite.

I am ecstatic. I nibble a strawberry from the complimentary fruit basket and sip the complimentary champagne as I lounge on the sumptuous king-size bed, wearing my most revealing nightie, waiting for my honey to enter and enjoy the benefits of my clever madcapping.

Regrettably, he is downstairs in his old room, frantically reporting to hotel security, “I’ve been robbed! And look in the bathroom: Glass everywhere! Blood! I think someone’s been stabbed!”

— Darcy Perdu

Pretty please, pop your email address into the Purple Box below to receive 2 NEW funny stories per week!  Thanks!

(Any madcapping adventures to share?  Have you ever tried to surprise someone?  Or taken a spontaneous trip?  Share your fun stories in the Comments Section!)