I Know What They Are Thinking

Note: The F-words is used occasionally. Sorry.

If you have any doubts, you won’t after you finish reading this. You’ll know just like I do that my ex-wife’s new husband is obviously a jerk. Sure he treats her like a queen and our kids like champions—which is more than I did—and sure he invested wisely—which I didn’t think necessary—and sure he’s respected in the community—for whatever that’s worth. But take his mask off, and you’ll find a rude son-of-a-bitch. He’s a manipulator of woman and children. A fake do-gooder. I know what goes on in people’s minds. After all, I’m a 1st person omniscient narrator.

Consider this. The ex and her new hubby throw a huge wedding reception at their home—live music, seven-tiered cake, wide-open bar, and invite everybody in town—but not me! Me! The stud who gave her nine children. The thoughtful dad who provided room and board all 18 years so she could stay home and raised the damn brats. The humble soul who accepted the 100 thousand dollar check to divorce her so she could marry a wealthy movie star. I didn’t expect to be the man of honor at the wedding. Nor did I want to sit at the head table. But, sheesh. No invitation?

They left me no choice but to crash the shindig. Which I did. And in style, too. I snuck over a fence and into their garage. Their dogs were barking their fool heads off, so I let them out in the street. Then I slipped into my disguise—a wig, make-up, tight skirt, and stiletto heels—and inflated the D-cup boobs so they looked huge under the white blouse. I used to dress like that all the time when the ex-wife was home taking care of the kids, and I needed a night out. I always looked hot.

I strolled out of the garage and into the backyard among the party-goers like I owned the place. Folks must have respected me because they took one look and stepped back. Little kids stared at me in that delightful innocence children have for wonderful things. The plan was to get the punch bowl and sneak up behind what’s-his-name and dump it on his head as a show of good sportsmanship. You know, like teams do to their coaches when they win a game. The punch bowl was between the band and the head table. And all would have gone according to plan if one of my heels hadn’t snapped near the swimming pool.

I fell backwards and into the deep end. "Fuck!" I yelled so loud the music stopped. I can’t swim a lick, but fortunately those boobs kept me afloat until some guy jumped in to help me to the shallow end. But as soon as I stood, the wig slipped off and the boobs floated away. My kids recognized me and screamed and cried, obviously glad to see me. My ex immediately grabbed her phone and dialed 911, no doubt to call an ambulance.

"No need to worry about me, honey," I told her. "I’m fucking okay."

I exited that pool and was standing on the edge, taking off the white blouse and dropping the skirt when the rude new husband stormed up to me using words that my kids shouldn’t hear. I yelled back, "Mind your own fucking business,", and he charged and shoved me back into the pool. I know the guests were appalled by his rude behavior. Who wouldn’t be? Like I said, the guy’s a crass son-of-a-bitch.

For reasons that will forever elude me, no one jumped in to help me this time. I finally managed to stand on my own, coughing pool water and gasping for air. My only garment was my jockey shorts, so every one of my tattoos was visible to the world. People began pointing, first at the large, purple vagina on my abdomen, then at the cunnilingus scene on my chest. Those behind me snickered and snorted when they realized that the face covering my back was Mad Magazine’s Alfred E. Newman. (BTW, that tattoo was pricey. I had to pay for it with the savings for our daughter’s braces.)

I began to feel embarrassed. I hurriedly got out of the pool and dashed for the nearest table, which just happened to be the table with the seven-tiered wedding cake. I yanked the tablecloth and the cake off the table and wrapped the cloth around my shoulders and chest. I didn’t bother to cover anything lower because I’m pretty proud of what I have down there.

I was also starting to get pissed off. My ex-wife’s new husband’s hostility seemed directed toward me personally. Another man might have caved in and left. But I wanted a face-to-face with the devious bastard who had deceived my ex-wife and manipulated children. By then my ex-wife and our kids were standing far away, clutching each other and crying uncontrollably. I know it was joy at the sight of their lovable old man.

I hollered at the new husband. "Why didn’t you invite me?" I wanted to knock his block off, but if I had lifted my arms the tablecloth would have fallen, exposing my tattoos again. I didn’t want anyone to think that I was a showoff. (By now you can tell that I’m a pretty perceptive guy, writing in the 1st person omniscient.)

His face looked confused. But I recognize fear when I see it. His eyes were slits. His upper lip curled at the corner. His knuckles white and taut.

"You hurt my fucking feelings!" I shouted.

He looked behind him, probably checking to see how many would come to his defense if I attacked. Most appeared amused, obviously preparing for the astonishing showdown about to take place. Others grinned, shook their heads, and covered their eyes. Some snickered and looked away. I’m sure most feared for the jerk’s safety yet were anxious to watch me take the jerk down a notch or two.

And just like that he surrendered. All but cried uncle and begged for forgiveness. As if to say "I’ve learned my lesson." Grinning like a coward who’d been whipped, he said that as long as I was there I might as well stay. In other words, "I’m terribly sorry. Please accept our heartfelt apology along with our sincere invitation as an honored guest."

The ex-wife and kids immediately yelled "No, no, no!" as if to say "No way could this miracle be happening right in front of us! We’ve never witnessed such a magnificent display of right (me) prevailing over wrong (him)."

I don’t like to brag, but at that moment I had them all eating wedding cake out of my hand. All I had to do was announce, "Okay! Last one in the pool is a maladaptive daydreamer and Paracosm creator with a Walter Mitty like fantasy-prone personality (FPP)!" , and they’d jump in obediently.

But I sensed a fly in the ointment. That devious new-husband bastard obviously held another card. He was going to make a fool of me. He was pretending that I was welcomed and loved, but it was a set up. He sure as hell didn’t want to watch my ex-wife and my adoring children lavished me with attention and affection. By making me an honorary guest, he knew I’d be surrounded by admirers all night. My family, who’d taken refuge in the house to prepare themselves to properly greet me, wouldn’t be able to get near me. The jerk I had so soundly defeated just minutes ago was making a bigger fool out of me than I could have made out of myself.

So I up and left. Back in the garage, I dropped the tablecloth and slipped out of my wet jockey shorts. To get even, I peed all over the garage floor. I dressed into my cowboy boots, cutoffs, tank top, and gold necklaces. Then I opened the door and split. I’d proven my point. I’d unveiled the real jerk. Although one of the dogs bit me in the ass and drew blood, I had won. And I knew it.