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The other day I asked my wife if she could do my laundry. (Now before all the feminists get in an uproar, my wife kindly volunteered to take this task over from me because my knees went the way of disco and she doesn't want me crashing down the basement stairs.)
I said, "Thanks, honey. Could you start with my unspeakables?"
"Okay," she replied, "but it's 'unmentionables,' not 'unspeakables'."
"Have you seen my underwear?"
Pause. Blink. Finally, she hit me back with her most often used retort. "You're weird."
To which I responded, "Yeah? Well, you married weird."
BOOM! Mic drop. Even she had no witty comeback for that one.
Now. Let's get something straight. There's nothing wrong with being weird. I pride myself on being weird. It's far, far, far better than being "normal" or even worse, boring.
And it's worked out well for many people. There's Weird Al...and...um...Gary Busey...ah...Donny Trump?
Okay, so I can't use celebrities as a shining example of the success of being weird.
My wife won't admit it, but I think she's good with weird, too.
We're the royal King and Queen of Weird, our kingdom is Weirdopia. And I love my weird queen.
Speaking of all things weird, here's a strange little weird book of mine: Chili Run. It's kinda a lark, a comedic crime thriller based on a dream I had about being forced to run through downtown Kansas City in my tighty whities (or is it "tidy whities"? That's one controversy I've never resolved.). It's complicated. The hijinks ensue right here!
