Opinions Vary: Xbox One and Sex near the punch bowl

Steve Ballmer is ready.

When I was thirty-three, I was madly in love with a man named Herbert. Built like a brick shit house, and worked in a pizzeria. Herbert and I were madly in love. That’s until the day I caught him giving the old pepperoni push to one of his co-workers in the back of our 1992 Sable station wagon. I was aghast. Me holding my pepperoni, this random stranger’s rectal cavity holding my Herbert’s. I felt betrayed. Still we persisted. For a bit. Herbert and I broke up that New Year’s Eve when I found him fingering some young stud near the punch bowl, carelessly pouring spiked Kool Aid all over his balls. I didn’t stay to watch him lap it up.

I never spoke to Herbert again. He wrote me, oh did he write me. Heartwarming epistles proclaiming his love for me. Odes to my thickened scrotum, toughened from years of taser play. He’d send me flowers. Order me pizzas during the time he knew I was raiding with my guild in World of Warcraft. I never forgave him, though. Never acknowledged how kind his soul was, despite his philandering. Never acknowledged how powerful his thickie was, whilst we were in the midst of coitus.

Years later, I begin to wonder. If I did the right thing. If instead of cutting my nose to spite my face, I should have forgave Herbert those two indiscretions. I mean goddamn! that fucking night we were both hopped up on shit-fumes. Back in those days we were straight-up jenkem addicts. Ripping fecal-blasts into Coca Cola bottles, and then throughout the night ripping deep breaths of one another’s intestinal track. It wasn’t love, but that’s the first word that comes to mind. So he dug his phalanges into the soft, welcoming pipe of some young stud we both saw at Planet Fitness. I can’t forgive him for that? And I mean — I’d be lying if we both didn’t at one time or another pay a courtesy compliment to the buck’s buns on the way out of the gym. That boy (Christopher) had an ass that could crack walnuts. Or tenderly caress your face. We’re talking that sort of otherworldly buttocks control.

Of course I had a right to be hurt. You don’t spend three years of cooing dumb bullshit like “You’re my soul mate” only to see the lie torn down in front of you. At your mother-in-law’s apartment. In a puddle of Kool Aid. You just never envision that sort of heartbreak.

But here I am.

I’m lonely now. These days I still got myself a bit addicted to the jenkem. I’ll take a few rips out of the kitty litter, and then stumble down to the arcade at the local movie theater. It’s where we met. While I’m unloading a fury that can only be described as horrifying on Kung-Lao’s dumb ass, slowly I’ll begin to weep. Of course. Of course! I miss Herbie. And I wonder to myself – what if he really had changed? What if he was no longer philandering? Fingering and deep-dishing people and the craziness? What if he really did pledge to stop farting in bed? And I mean like — really farting. Cranking the sort of flatulent rockets that caused our nine cats to lose their hair.

The question keeps me up at night. Hugging my four and a half cats. I know, it’s odd. And a half. We figured it would be only fair to split them evenly. So one angry night while Herbie was taking his belongings, I grabbed our stuffed Alberta (rest her soul) from the mantlepiece and I cut that pussy in two with a butter knife. At night I lay there, huffing the kitty-shitty yum yum out of my gym sock, and I wonder.

If Herbie really had changed.

If all the things that had pissed me off about him were gone.

If he really, really, realized the error of his ways?

Shouldn’t I give him another shot?

…and that’s why I’ll buy an Xbox One.