From Ex to Next

 

When my first wife walked out on me

I said, “Hon, take any ol’ thing you please

‘Cause I don’t want you to be upset at all!”

Well, she took the rug, and the Christmas tree 

The washing machine and the DVDs

And then she took the paint right off the walls 

 

 

I’m pretty good at getting married. I’m REAL good at getting left, and a master of one of the equations of life. God laid out the universe with mathematical precision. The whole shebang, or Big Bang, if you will is set upon 614. Look that number up. Then look up 6.14. Then make coffee. You gonna be there for a while.

 

Everything from the circumference of a circle to the dimensions of a pretty face all falls back to 614. Therefore, I have searched for the equation to relationships, or the lack thereof and have arrived at the sequence. (EX) + (N+T) = NEXT. As you can plainly see NEXT > EX. And, by applying the theory of quantum physics where particles can exist for a nanosecond it can be used to reduce Miss Right to Miss Right Now! 

 

And I have applied this sequence six times. As I’ve said in previous articles I seem to have a problem with long term relationships. And I apply the NEXT solution quite liberally. That’s the .14 who invariably comes around after the current Mrs  splits the sheets. You can always find a new running mate in the politics of love. Not a wife or an official girlfriend mind you.  More like a Best Friend with benefits. A dangling participle. 

 

As you can surmise, with six notches on my, uh, gun, my understanding of the fairer sex is a bit misogynistic. Yet I can’t pick up on any of the subtle hints women throw out when they are attracted. This gives the illusion of my being a gentleman where in point of fact I’m just clueless. My average relationship lasts about, let me see, Charsha was two years, then there was Sandra. Lovely child. We went about two months. Brenda, hey! Seven years until I ran off to New York for Mary Ellen. Boy! Was that a trip. True love . . . Six days, came come home to an empty house, no ass, no hat, no cattle. I won’t bore you with the rest. There are no “one-night stands” because mama told me that was a sin. But you get the idea. Like I’ve said. Long term? I’m great for say, two minutes . . . come to think of it, that might be the problem. Anyway. 

 

As you can probably surmise, my proclivity has led me through a tumultuous life, but it has provided me with a wealth of subject matter resulting in songs, books, screenplays and articles in numbers you will not believe. And after over fifty years I’ve actually developed a style that results in a little chump change. Good thing I live in Texas and nice that The Lone Star State operates on Taconomics. 

 

Thank God alimony is not a firmly established Texas institution, but child support is. I experienced child support in my younger years but those two grew up, hate my guts because I left their mother for Mary Ellen, and by design or luck I have never been a proud daddy again. 

 

And you tend to acquire wisdom and morals as you age. Well, not really. Myself, I came down with “Cowboy STD.” Imagine, if you will, a corral filled with lovely, submissive sheep. Now picture yourself as a goat. And you’re there on a lawn chair with a cigar and a Red Solo cup filled with Jim Beam, just chilling under an umbrella with one of the sheep gently waving a fan at you just to keep the flies off. Now, close your eyes, open them, and all the sheep have magically changed to cheerleaders from The University of Texas! They are not high school cheerleaders because Chris Hansen is still looking for material. 

 

What could be more perfect. Ok ok, you’re going to hell, but not today. And sometime before that day you can just join the Mormon Church, they give you a tax write off and a ticket to the Celestial Kingdom. Do you waaaaana go to heaven, and I always said, “Yes!” 

 

But there’s just one little problem. After years of wear and tear you ain’t “tearing” quite like you used to. If fact, lying there looking at all the beauty grazing in your corral you are fully aware of the main symptom of the aforementioned “Cowboy STD.” What can’t get up, can’t get out! You’re just an old goat on a lawn chair. 

 

But do not despair. Women are inventive. If you have enough money them sheep can see you as anything you wanna be. And if they know that they’re in the will? Shut the front door!! The only problem you’re gonna have is all the cat fights to see which one gets to wave the fan next. Scratch my back, baby, I got an itch right there!