Men, what are they good for?

Men. What are the really good for? I got married for a coupla reasons. I found a great guy is reason #1. I was tired of eating dinner by myself every freakin' night. I wanted to take a lover. I hate that phrase. Yes, I have THOSE needs but I also need a man with killer instincts. I guess when I said "I Do" I thought my husband would just do some things instinctively. Like take out the garbage. This was just assumed in our house. We never talked about it but some how the garbage gets taken out on a regular basis. I don't even remember what days are garbage days. That's his business and he is good at it and I do enough nagging around here so if he misses a day I don't even know about it. Another instinct: Tools. I just thought all guys liked tools. Boy does my husband like tools. He could get a power drill for Valentine's Day and think its the best most romantic gift ever. I don't get it but whatever. And I, instinctively know where all lost things of his are; one left shoe, calculator, keys, a cd etc.

Now here is where my husband goes wrong. I'm eating in the kitchen yesterday by myself. I hear this buzssszzz buzzzzSSSzzz sound. No, it wasn't his power drill. It was the kind of annoying buzzz buzzssszzzz sound that can only come from a flying insect. I look over and there is the mother of all flying ants! It was the black queen Elizabeth of bugs. She was buzzing to get out, mad as hell and going through menopause. So I scream cause it scares the crap out of me "HONEY get in here quick!" And what does he do? He says "what?" from the other end of the house. This is a life or death situation here folks! Suppose she attacks, suppose I'm allergic to her venom? We have no Eppie pen in the house. Time is of the essence! No time to dwindle and take our sweet ol' time. This is war! No time to mosey on in and call Dick Cheany to come up with some kind of strategic attack. If I said the house was on fire you don't stand around and ask questions, you get your smart little ass outta there in a heartbeat.

What I wanted him to do...what most normal men do is run in, grab a newspaper, tell woman to stand back, and whack the shit out of the little beast. But no, it takes a little arguing to actually get him into the kitchen. He looks around, inside drawers, in cabinets for something to mame the bug. Finally 37 minutes later he takes a swing. And another, and another. FOUR swings later the thing is squirming around on the floor. It's not even dead yet! Dear God man where are your killer instincts? What happened to my protector? My hero? My Superman?

Sheesh, I think it's time to call the exterminator.