Foolish wife

Because it will be unhelpful to shout at Angie, I’m going to shout at the internet instead.

Angie went out tonight to one of Wendy’s parties. I declined to attend.
Angie is on anti-biotics and I told her to watch the drinking. One glass of wine would probably be too much, but if she only drank one glass for the whole evening then things would be ok.

Then I went to bed.

At about 02h30 there is a knocking at the door. I go to answer it and Angie is standing there swaying slightly, and looking sheepish. Slightly further down the passage is a burly Indian dude who I have never met. My initial assumption is that the drinking was not constrained to a single glass and that this Indian dude was someone at the party that has driven Angie home. I can’t quite twig why a stranger has driven her home, since Angie knew people at the party. Also, I don’t think Wendy knows any Indians well enough to invite them to a party that she would be holding.
I went to sleep in underwear, so I’m kind of hiding myself behind the door and that isn’t helping me figure things out.

I come to an understanding that I need to go downstairs, so I excuse myself and go to put some pants on. To further complicate matters, the bloody dog runs off. Angie says, “You need to catch Bean, she’s running away.” I don’t honestly give a fuck about the dog at that point because the Indian dude is telling me bewildering stuff about cars spinning out of control and that I need to thank God. But in my half-dazed state I hear that I need to thank ‘the guard’ and I’m thinking that seems a little peculiar. Why do I need to thank the security complex’s guard? Did the car spin in the driveway? Or in the cul-de-sac outside the complex perhaps?
I get Angie inside, telling her to shut-up about the dog and that Bean won’t run very far. I follow the Indian dude downstairs and I see that he is not alone. He’s brought Al Qaida with him. Not really. This isn’t even something I think at the time. I only think it later. A cell of Al Qaida on a Jihad of Peace have arrived at my doorstep. They are a group of four Muslim men, some with the hectic beards, others without. And they are the nicest strangers I’ve ever come across.
They keep talking about how Angie spun her car on the highway and drove up an embankment, and how they fortunately were going slow enough to avoid her, and how they got out to help her because it didn’t look like she wanted to stop. It looked like she intended to drive over the embankment into the oncoming traffic on the other side of the highway. The Peugeot, not being a 4×4, was taking a while to achieve this aim, but Angie seemed determined.
I can’t understand how the Peugeot didn’t collide with anything. I ask about that, but it seems the embankment (and not a crash barrier) is the only thing that stopped her.

I start to express how utterly pissed-off I am at Angie at this point, but the guy that brought Angie upstairs chides me for it. He tells me not to be angry, but rather to be thankful that Angie was not harmed. That we are all human, and that sometimes humans drink a little too much. I mention the anti-biotics, and for a moment he falters in his mantra of tolerance conceding that drinking with anti-biotics is extra-foolish, but still human.
I realise that these nice guys have effectively saved Angie from doing further harm to herself and her car and I thank them profusely.
I am quite rattled by the whole thing in that I didn’t get their names or contact information in order to thank them properly, but I’m fairly certain that bringing Angie home safely was all they wanted out of the experience anyway.

They drive off and I feel a bit rattled. I feel an urge to go shout in an unreasonable fashion at Angie. But Bean has run off, so I need to find her first.

I walk around the grounds of the complex, from top to bottom and find her nowhere. My panic grows. I think stupid things like, “She got confused because it’s dark” and “She’s squeezed under the fence and run off to the dam and been eaten by a carnivorous goose.”
Dismayed, I return upstairs to my home to find her waiting for me at the door. At least I no longer feel angry at Angie. I feel relief at finding the infamous Satan’s Poodle.

I get back inside to find Angie passed out on the bed in that fully-clothed, splayed way that drunken people pass out on things. I feel the anger welling up inside me again. I also feel no desire to sleep.

I write this post.

There will be words in the morning, but I hope that I will keep them tempered.

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The Little Giant Pansies

Hopefully there is a god, because if not then no-one knows why I have taken to playing with little men again so long since my childhood.

Once upon a time, small boys would play with toy soldiers. Arguments would ensue over whose toy soldier had shot/maimed/blown-up the others’, and because of a lack of clearly defined rules it was impossible to establish when the toys would shoot straight, and how much damage they’d cause if they did hit a target. In the end, certain of the boys would resort to smashing other boys’ little men with hammers, or something else equally cruel and unusual.

Jump to the future, where the little boys are now men, but still want to play with little toy-soldiers. The boy (now a man) who had all of his little men smashed all those years ago creates a game of little men, and calls it ‘Necromunda’ — although this might not be the way he spells it.
Overcompensating for the past injustices, he makes the game rules excessively complex and quantifiable. Everything is given a number. Everything is given a score. Everything must be measured. Everyone must roll dice.

Now, the little men move around the table and fight, as they did when he was a boy. Except now, everyone must measure distances and roll dice.
Want to move your man? Measure how far he can go.
Want to shoot at another little man? Measure how far he can shoot.
Roll dice to see if he hits. Roll dice to see if the hit man is wounded. Roll dice to see the nature of the wounded man’s wound. Roll to see if your man spasses-out. Roll dice to see if he runs away. Roll dice to see if his gun jams. Roll dice to see if his gun explodes. Roll dice to see if he falls off a building. Roll dice to see if he falls down. Roll dice to see if he gets up.
And modifiers. Add or subtract modifiers to the dice rolls depending on things ranging from the little man’s religious beliefs to whether the little man stepped in dog-shit that morning.

But no-one came out with hammers to contest a decision because everyone measured and rolled. And there was peace in the land (except for the ruthless violence the little mans committed upon one another).

Except, when I roll I don’t get the numbers I need. I have a gang of little men now, and they all run away or fall over without fail. That is what my dice rolls tell me. Run away! Fall over!
Three times they have been defeated in a most pathetic fashion.

The other little boys men that I play against have suggested that by naming my gang “The Giant Pansies” I have rattled their self-confidence. Giving each individual little man names like Binky, Fluffy and Loo-Loo may also not be helping.

In order to encourage my little men to be their best, I have bestowed upon them ego-boosting titles (with the exceptions of the Juves who have received titles, but not particularly ego-boosting ones. They must earn better names in battle).

Hence forth, the Giant Pansies will be known as:
The Giant Pansies of Destruction

And they will consist of:
Binky the Belligerent
Fluffy the Fornicator
Loo-Loo the Lumbar Puncture
Cutie the Crucifier
Giggles the Garotte
Chuckles the Chilblain

The juves will be known as:
Bobo the Bland
Squidgy the Squeamish
Jingles the Jehovah’s Witness

Now nothing can stand in their way!

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