Say you’ve got a secret life — something you don’t want anyone knowing about.
Maybe you’re cheating on your wife, cheating on your taxes, cheating on your diet —
whatever. What do you do everyday? It’s not like you’re living your secret life out in
the open. You’re not some simpleton cramming Twinkies down your piehole in full view
of the public. No… you’re hiding. You’re sneaking them out of a shoe box buried in
But then one day, your wife finds the shoebox, and there’s hell to pay. Suddenly
you’re being shamed like some pre-schooler who peed himself on the first day.
Goodbye, manhood! It’s all broccoli and tofu from here out. Your wife buys one of
those cookie jars that berates you when you open it. (Because that’s what the world
needs — nagging outsourced to your home furnishings. Here’s a tip: don’t buy the
cookies. Problem solved! You’re welcome, America.)
So anyway, there you are, bitter and hungry. No more pork rinds to clog your
arteries. Well, it’s your own fault, dummy. Everyone knows a shoebox in the closet is
the most obvious place to hide your illicit treats. No, a smart fatso knows to keep that
shit as far away from you as possible. Plausible deniability.
Same with cheating. You don’t make calls on your own cell phone. You get one of
those disposables. You create a second email account… that you never check from
home. You don’t meet anywhere that might show up on a credit card bill or on your
GPS. You cab that shit. That way, wifey has no clue that you’ve been off bumping
uglies with some slutty waitress.
Of course, your wife isn’t dumb. She knows something is up. She’s a smart lady — probably one of the reasons you married her in the first place. So she looks for evidence. She keeps an eye on your accounts, your cell phone, and that pesky GPS. And she doesn’t find anything. But the behavior is still there. The suspicious silences and disappearances… the general douchey attitude. So she knows. And suddenly… the squeaky-clean record you’re sporting starts to look even more suspicious. Work, home, work, home… maybe a beer with the guys. It’s all above board, but it just seems too good to be true.
Nice work, dumbass — you’ve officially set off her alarm. No one is that boring. No
one is that perfectly routine and good. You gotta throw a few curve balls in there to
make you seem, I don’t know… human. Forget to call one night when you’re working
late. Deviate from your normal drive home every now and then. Stumble in a little too
drunk. Whatever it is, it’s gotta have a reasonable explanation… and it’s gotta be
something you might actually do. That way you just seem like your regular, average
dickhead husband. Being an insensitive numbnuts is better than being a cheater,
especially when it come to the divorce proceedings.
My point is, if you really want to hide the dark, gross parts of your inner being,
you’ve gotta do it right. You’ve got to do it smart. Erasing any semblance of real human
behavior and acting like a damned robot is not the right way to go about it.
Because what it really comes down to in the end is that feeling your wife’s got… the
one that says something is wrong. Gut instinct is nearly flawless at picking this shit up. I
know… everyone’s always babbling that crap about being logical and by-the-book. But
really, think back on those moments in your life when your gut’s telling you: this
doucheknuckle driver is actually a psycho, that crowd of dudes with baseball bats
hanging out in the alley doesn’t look right, or… that milk’s expired. Really think back.
Now… how often was your gut wrong? I’m guessing never, right? Yeah, thought so.