A lady wanted to be rid of her soon-to-be-retired couch ballast and figured out how to do it without being a suspect.
The Internet site offered one of those little odometers in the bottom corner, ticking off the number of hits the site had received. Thirteen thousand, three hundred and three. Was this information being aggressively consumed by a bevy of unhappy, homicidal spouses? Isn’t that illegal? How many wives are going to run to the Internet as soon as they finish this story? Should aged husbands everywhere be trembling?
Xerox these directions and take them to your next tea.
The first step in this devious behavior is for the woman to buy him a flashy red sports car and a subscription to Playboy magazine. At first glance, this appears to be more aiding and abetting than a plan of action, but it subversively sets the wheels in motion and can readily convince you to wonder if this is right for you. And of course it is; what’s better than being single again and free?
Your husband, of course, will be ignorantly excited. “What a babe! She bought me a sports car. How great is that?” You’ll note no mention of the Playboy subscription is being made at this point. That’s because he doesn’t know about it, since it will later become evidence that disposes of your need to come up with an alibi.
Rain-x will prevent bugs from sticking to your smile.
A guy with a sports car is very mistakenly going to think he is once again a hot property. He’ll be tooling around town — not down to the senior center, mind you — but over to the college campus where there is a higher incidence of hitchhiking, giving every hot chick the opportunity to be overwhelmed by his red sports car and brilliantly white teeth covered with dead bugs.
This shiny-new-red-sports-car approach is merely a routine behavioral anomaly of the male libido and ego running amuck. Think “Bon Voyage.”
If you happen to have a 50-inch waist, don’t leave a thong.
Once the new state of mind is well established, a necessary intermediate step is to purchase several skimpy, gossamer negligees and while never being seen wearing any, casually drape one here and one there from time to time for their increased-anticipation value. This will instill a high level of anxiety, forcing the intended target to feign renewed virility.
Keep a well- stocked pantry chock full of comfort foods.
The next thing to be done is to arrange a full-blown celebration at your nearby Hooters restaurant. Pay in advance for an extravaganza. Tip the carhops generously so that the shiny red sports car remains glaringly omnipresent, and assign very generous tips for those waitresses who show exemplary enthusiasm.
Oh! I almost forgot. On the eve of the festivities, extend sincere apologies and wishes for his enjoyment and then beg off the testosterone-surging event with some lame excuse. Let his imagined prowess direct his behavior, and you go home and enjoy a quart of Haagen Dazs.
Stop giggling with glee; it’s not over yet.
The odds are in your favor. There are many upwardly mobile chicklets but just one silver-haired, red-sports-car-driving big spender within flirting distance. Thus, an aneurysm or some sort of chest-clutching motion should reward you with the house, retirement benefits, yacht, life insurance proceeds, LP collection, and, last but not least, shiny red sports car. You will then be the recipient of the sympathy vote, and no one will be the wiser.
And the award for best actress goes to…
The insurance detectives and the coroner will note the red sports car in the drive, find the stack of old Playboy magazines secreted away in his underwear drawer, and count the number of Hooters’ waitresses who attend the funeral and will unwittingly arrive at the wrong conclusion.
Caution: Do not drive the red sports car or wear a bright red dress to the cemetery, as this will cause unwanted glances of doubt and invite a review of your Haagen Dazs therapy.
— Ron Smalt
Humorist Ron Smalt, 76, is a full-time carpenter in Orchard Park, N.Y.