Like I said in my previous post, I injured my hamstring while playing paintball recently, and now I’m stuck with a bum leg and a wicked limp for the next month and a half. Tonight while sorting my laundry, I pulled my paintball jersey out of the pile of clean clothing, and I put it on just for fun. As you might already know, I’m the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve. I make it known when I feel something deeply enough. Tonight, as I stood there wearing my paintball jersey in the center of my modest living room, I felt something, and I simply had to let it out. Strictly as a matter of unfortunate coincidence, Diana happened to be there, too.

Kevin: Oh, Paintball. I love you so much, even when you hurt me. [grunting and wincing] Ah, it hurts when I try to stretch out my leg. I’d do it for you, though, Paintball. I’d stretch out my leg if you asked me to.

Diana: Shut the hell up. I’m trying to read.

Kevin: I’m not talking to you, Diana. I’m talking to Paintball. Where were we, Paintball? Oh yeah, I love you, Paintball. You would never hurt me as badly as Diana would. I would give you the sun, the moon, the stars, and the muscles and tendons attached to the posterior of my femur.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin with a water bottle, which is primarily used to discipline our cats]

Kevin: Hey, what the hell? What did I do to you?

Diana: I’m trying to read.

Kevin: And I’m trying to love Paintball. We all have problems.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin in the face]

Kevin: You see what I have to put up with, Paintball? At least you fight with honor. You would never shoot an unarmed man in the face — especially an unarmed man who is injured, and who’s not wearing a mask. Some people just don’t understand the “blind man” rule. You understand though, Paintball.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin in the face...repeatedly] I hate you so much sometimes.

Kevin: I can’t even place my faith in the woman I love anymore. You’re all I’ve got, Paintball. Don’t ever change.

Diana: Jesus Christ. You win. I’m going to the other room.

Kevin: Sorry, what was that, Diana? I was talking to Paintball.

Lately, it seems like a lot of my conversations with Diana end with her leaving the room. That’s weird. I wonder what Paintball would have to say about that. Or hell, I don’t know. Maybe I should just ask Helen Hunt instead.

Four to six more weeks to go. That may not seem like a long time to some people, but it’s ages in KZ time. I need you, Paintball. I don’t cope very well when I’m confronted with boredom. I wonder if that comes across at all in my writing.

Here’s how the conversation ended.

Kevin: I’m sorry, Diana. Were you saying something?

Diana: Yeah, I was just bitching about your feminism.

Kevin: So — you’re against the fact that I believe in the empowerment of women, and equality between the sexes?

Diana: Oh whatever, I was talking about your … fem-in-inity or whatever. It sounds like a made up word!

Kevin: No, it sounds like a real word which you happen to not know the definition of.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin with a water bottle, which is primarily used to discipline our cats]

Kevin: Jesus, woman. Use your words.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin again]

Kevin: You see? This is why you’re doomed to an eternity of earning $0.77 to every dollar made by a man in the workplace.

Diana: [Sprays Kevin one final time, and huffs away]

Kevin: Where are you going, Diana? Off to the kitchen to make me a delicious pie?

Diana: Asshole.

Kevin: Cherry, please.

Yes, I know. I’m a bad, bad man.

Monday the 23rd was Diana’s birthday. Every year, she tells me not to get her flowers because she thinks they’re impractical and needlessly expensive, but I decided this year to pick her up a modest, reasonably priced bouquet.

In addition to that, I also picked up two birthday cards for Diana. Actually, to be more precise, I picked up one proper birthday card, and a little something extra to break up the monotony of the standard, “Happy Birthday, I love you” proceedings. I guess you could say I have something of an intimacy problem. That’s what my therapist tells me, anyway — which is total bullcrap, because I know for a fact that I don’t have any problems with intimacy. I also don’t have a therapist.

Anyway, if you knew anything about what I do, then you might already know that I have a track record of pissing off my girlfriend by giving her cheeky, insincere, “decoy cards” before I calm her down by presenting her the real thing. What can I say? We’re nothing but animals and savages without our traditions. This year, I was especially amused by my own efforts on Diana’s decoy birthday card, and I decided to share it with the rest of you.

“Please Get Well,” it pleads.

I’m counting on you to pull through, my love.

Yeah, I know, I’m a jerk. Again, for the record: I did also give Diana a real birthday card with a heartfelt, handwritten message, but that’s not the kind of stuff that people come here to read. If it helps my case at all, Diana did smack me around for two minutes before I gave her the real thing. Sincerity is for suckers, am I right?

Happy Birthday, Diana! You know I love you.

Love is in the air, my friends. This February, my chest swells with gratitude and gladness for having found the love of my life — the one girl with whom I want to share every Valentine’s Day for the remainder of my living days. So I guess I’m no stranger to love these days. What a wonderful thing to be able to say. I consider myself lucky to have found a girlfriend as kind, as loving, and as supportive as Diana. Yet luck had very little do with keeping us together for the past seven years. If you’ll forgive me for my presumption, I’d like to share with you some insights into my relationship so that others out there might also reach the peak of romantic bliss, just as I have. True, there are happy couples all over the globe flourishing in a variety of different ways, but there is only one true way to be as happy as Diana and KZ. This one goes out to all of the lovestruck gentlemen of the world who find themselves in need of some romantic advice.

• Rule #1: Never be complacent.

  Relationships require more than mere passion and raw emotions. A healthy relationship requires effort, commitment, selflessness, and reciprocity. All of these requirements amount to a very tall order, but it’s a profoundly rewarding thing when you and your partner manage to get things right. In short, never stop trying.





• Rule #2: It’s okay to daydream when the conversations get dull.

  Let’s face it: women like to talk a whole lot more than men do. Every strong relationship should be built upon a foundation of good communication, but sometimes the temptation to daydream is just too enticing to resist when your girl spends 30 minutes describing the tedious minutia of her uneventful day. Go on and drift off. It’s okay. You deserve a mental holiday every now and then. It’s not like you won’t hear her tell you those stories again a minimum of twenty times.

  Sure, you may occasionally get in trouble when your woman realizes that you aren’t paying attention to her, but the risks are far outweighed by the benefits of daydreaming. For one thing, daydreaming keeps your mind sharp if you do it correctly. Chicks dig a man with a sharp mind, and a strong sense of imagination. Daydreaming also goes a long way to keep you sane when conversations press on the limits of your patience. But the best thing about daydreaming during a boring conversation is that you’ll always have something new to learn about the next time you decide to pay attention. Don’t feel guilty for allowing your mind to wander. Embrace the discovery.





• Rule #3: Show her all of the best aspects of your personality, but also hide nothing.

  Never stop dating your girl even long after you two have moved beyond the awkward dating phase. It’s all too easy to grow complacent in a long-term relationship, but try to put your best foot forward as much as you can so that she will always see the best that you have to offer. Having said that, it’s also important to understand that your less admirable qualities are bound to show through on occasion, so don’t treat them like a dirty secret. By all means, always try to show her your best, but also be honest about who you are.

  Consider the case of Mouthy. I always do what I can to show Diana the very best of me, and she adores me for it because I kick so much ass. Despite that fact, Diana also understands that I’m a human being with my own weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and brittle frailties. I express the essence of those lesser qualities through Mouthy, a hexagonal hand puppet whom I create out of paper chopstick covers every time I take Diana out to eat at an Asian restaurant.

  

  Mouthy wants so desperately to make friends with Diana. Unfortunately, Diana spurns Mouthy’s every attempt to strike up a conversation. Invariably, Diana always finds a way to wrestle Mouthy away from me, and she’ll shred him to pieces before my grieving eyes. Given that Mouthy is made of paper, and given that Diana has demonstrated an alarming propensity for destroying him, Mouthy is the living embodiment of weakness, vulnerability, and brittle frailty. Mouthy’s fragile weaknesses mirror my own. His suffering is my suffering. I do what I can to show Diana my very best, but I also accept the weaknesses of my own constitution.

  

  It’s interesting to note that Diana can so callously destroy a part of me without showing an ounce of remorse. That’s the stuff of psychopaths, man. This aspect of Diana appears to be one of her own character faults. Even so, Rule #3 is a two way street, and so I choose to love Diana anyway despite her moral frailty. That’s just the way true love works.

  Diana loves me for who I am. For better or worse, she accepts all of the things that make me KZ. Diana loves me in spite of Mouthy. Diana loves me because of Mouthy. All you need is a little emotional honesty to make things work.

  
  
  

• Rule #4: Keep the fires burning by inserting a little mystery into the mix.

  The specter of boredom is an unfortunate reality for even the most loving and compatible of couples. Over time, long-term relationships define themselves on dedication and stability rather than impulsiveness and excitement. But who’s to say that the fires of passion are destined to die?

  

  The best way to prevent familiarity from breeding contempt is to spice up your days with a little mystery. This goes a long way to keeping your girl interested and emotionally engaged. Using myself as an example, I have recently formed the habit of arbitrarily abbreviating my sentences so that I only say the first letter of a number of strategic words. Diana finds this practice of mine mystifying, yet mysterious — confusing, yet completely irresistible. Here’s a portion of a conversation that I had with Diana sometime last week.

  Diana: Guess what, Kevin. I reached level 15 on my Smurfs game.

  Kevin: Oh yeah, great. That totally justifies the way you monopolize my iPhone all the time.

  Diana: Yes, it does. See, I can harvest all kinds of cool crops, like peas and strawberries. And sometimes Papa Smurf will send me on missions where I have to go out and look for lost smurfs. There’s also mini-games and Smurfette!

  Kevin: Yeah, yeah, GFY.

  Diana: GFY? What does that … hey, screw you! You “go fuck yourself”.

  Kevin: Whoa, that’s not what GFY means. It stands for, “good for you”.

  Diana: God damnit, I fucking hate it when you turn everything into an acronym. Why don’t you talk like a person and use actual words?

  Kevin: First of all, GFY is not an acronym. An acronym is an abbreviation made up of initial letters which form a pronounceable word. Secondly…

  Diana: I don’t give a shit. I’m just sick of having to decode all of your sentences.

  Kevin: Yeah, yeah. GFY.

  Insert some mystery, keep her guessing, and keep things spicy. She’ll thank you for it in the long run.

  
  
  

• Rule #5: Create no-win situations to remind her of what she has.

  Sometimes the best way to remind your girl that you’re the best choice for her is to confront her with a lighthearted, no-win situation. By stripping away the possibilities for choice from a strategic number of situations, you are gently guiding your girl toward the understanding that you are in possession of the key to a number of life’s hidden truths, which is totally hot. Again, using myself as an example, consider this conversation that Diana and I recently had about our Netflix instant queue.

  

  Diana: What do you want to watch tonight, Kevin? Battlestar Galactica or Desperate Housewives?

  Kevin: You mean B-Star G or Desperate H-Dub?

  Diana: Fine. Do you want to watch B-Star G or Desperate H-Dub?

  Kevin: What the hell are you talking about? Why are you abbreviating your words like that? You mean Battlestar Galactica or Desperate Housewives?

  Diana: You are such a dick, you know that?

  Kevin: I know a lot of things, Diana. You know what else I know? I know that I love you.

  Diana: Yeah, right. My fucking hero.

  I don’t mean to brag or anything, but apparently, I am Diana’s hero. It’s only taken her a handful of no-win situations to realize this fact.

  
  
  

• Rule #6: A well-placed “I love you” can go a very long way.

  As exemplified in Rule #5, saying “I love you” at precisely the right time can disarm your girl, and remind her of how much you mean to her. “I love you” is a wonderfully magical statement. It has the power to enchant her in the midst of a romantic moment, or to melt her heart in the middle of a heated fight.

  

  You should also consider the value of “I love you” for its ability to make you look like the sympathetic party while recalling the events of a lovers’ quarrel. Case in point, here is a continuation of the conversation that I quoted in Rule #5.

  Kevin: I know a lot of things, Diana. You know what else I know? I know that I love you.

  Diana: Yeah, right. My fucking hero.

  Kevin: I truly mean it. I love you, Diana.

  Diana: Fuck you.

  See what I mean? Who’s the bad guy from that particular exchange? Just three simple words transform your everyday, awesome KZ, into a tragically stoic martyr of love. The utterance of that simple phrase at precisely the right moment has made me out to look like a modern-day Casanova. I’m a KZ-nova, if you will. Don’t you desperately want to be like me, now?

  
  
  

• Rule #7: Resist proposing marriage for a minimum of seven years.

  This method seems to have worked for me. I imagine you will be able to employ the same strategy with similar success. Your girl may give you grief for not proposing to her sooner, but she will also respect your resistance, as this will be interpreted as a display of manliness and cavalier strength. Chicks dig manly men of a rebellious nature almost as much as they dig abusive douchebags who treat women like crap. Show her your strong, principled, masculine side without venturing into the realm of douchebaggery, and you’ll be golden.

  

  
  
  

• Rule #8: Fantasy and role-play are great tools for spicing up the bedroom.

  Sometimes keeping it real is overrated. Sometimes it’s more fun to indulge in a little fantasy before bed. Head over to Diana’s Awesome Blog at www.KZSucksAss.com to read all about Rule #8.

  

  
  
  

• Rule #9: Complimenting your girl while she’s getting dressed is a great excuse to cop a feel.

  Try this one the next time you enter the room while your girl is getting dressed. “Hey, honey, have you lost weight?” As soon as she looks down to examine her body, reach out and cop a free feel. Whether your girl believes in the sincerity of your statement after the fact is irrelevant for two reasons: (1) Even if it was just for a brief moment, you raised her personal sense of body image and self esteem; and (2) You got to cop a free feel during the exchange. In either event, it’s a win-win situation. It’s fun to desire, and fun to be desired.

  
  
  

• Rule #10: If you are as insufferably annoying to your girl as I am to Diana, then be sure to thank her this Valentine’s Day for putting up with your ridiculous shit.

  Diana may swear like a sailor, but she has the patience of a saint. I’m lucky that Diana tolerates me in spite all of my self-indulgent, juvenile antics. Diana, I am the happiest that I’ve ever been in life because I have you by my side. Every moment and every day with you is a reason to celebrate.

  

  I love you, Diana. Sincerely, I do.

  
  
  
  

You see, fellas? That’s how it’s done. Cap it all off with a brief display of tender sincerity, and she’ll eat it right up, and let you get away with murder. Ain’t love grand?

Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody.

“Inside thoughts” are the kind of ideas that are probably best kept to yourself. They are the mental processes that fuel those off-colored remarks which jeopardize careers, end friendships, get you punched, earn you sideways glances, and make you want to die the moment you vocalize them into words. I’m talking about the kind of thoughts that recklessly escape your mouth like a drenched and agitated cat bolting away from an involuntary bath. I’m talking about those moments in life when you silence a room because you’ve said too much, and much too loudly. “Of course there’s a way,” you proudly proclaim. “Haven’t you ever heard of glory holes?” Try that line out if you enjoy awkward moments marked by a horrified silence. I’ve been there.

A staggering variety of messed up shit pops into my head on a daily basis. On the whole, my inner sense of discretion filters out most of those inside thoughts from my blog entries, and when I engage in polite conversation. Sometimes though, on occasions like today, the best way to stay sane is to let loose, and to unleash a deluge of inside thoughts onto a hapless crowd of onlookers.

Assuming I still have your attention, let’s get started with the indiscretions.

• 

  My girlfriend, Diana, is an animal lover. She never fails to comment on the tragedy of roadkill when she spots a dead animal in the center of the road. “Poor possum!” she’ll cry. The sight of a dead animal is never a pleasant thing, but I never let things like that get me down. I always assume the possum had it coming. He was probably embezzling money from his employers down at the possum insurance agency. He must have also been a lousy drunk — the kind of douche who would come home sloshed every night after work wearing his brown fedora and his tiny maroon necktie without a collared shirt, and who would spit on the cold plate of dinner that had been lovingly set aside for him, all before beating his possum wife in a savage, drunken rage. Fuck that possum, man. He totally got what was coming to him.

• Assuming there is such a thing as an afterlife, and assuming that Heaven and Hell actually exist, how can we be so sure that Hell is the ghoulishly terrible place that everybody makes it out to be? Heaven is where the virtuous people go, and Hell is the final destination for the dregs of humanity — the non-believers and the sinners. Most religious traditions would scare us into believing that Hell is a place of infinite agony designed to punish people for their unrepented sins. But what’s in it for the Devil? Why would he kick your ass in the afterlife for pissing off God? Doesn’t the Devil get his kicks from defying the will of God? I’m not saying that I have any desire to go to Hell, but who’s to say that, once you got there, you wouldn’t be greeted by a throng of high fives, defiant AC/DC music, kick-ass beach parties, and and an endless buffet line full of pizza, beer, and devil’s food cake?
• Speaking of wicked people, is it wrong that I see Adolf Hitler’s mustache on the back of my cat’s leg? Her name is Madam Beasley Meowington, but I like to call her Hitler Foot.
  
• This next inside thought isn’t a very private one since I’ve talked about it before among a number of my friends. I think it’s still worth mentioning here in this post since most people call for my immediate crucifixion once they hear me admit to it. Here goes.
  

  I’ve never understood the hype over Jerry Seinfeld. I don’t think he’s very funny. He’s a clever guy, and his observational humor can be pretty insightful at times, but neither his sitcom nor his stand-up routines have ever made me laugh. Yes, I’ve seen Curb Your Enthusiasm. Yes, I think that show is pretty damned funny. That’s probably because the show has very little to do with Jerry Seinfeld. Yes Joie, I know. You and I can no longer be friends now that I have declared these thoughts publicly in writing. I’m just not a stickler for a tickler.

• During a recent conversation, a friend of mine remarked, “I could never work in an animal shelter because I couldn’t stand to see an animal put to sleep.” My mind immediately went to a dark place, and I started to giggle. I pictured my friend working as an animal shelter volunteer, happily playing with an exuberant little puppy inside one of the socializing rooms. The play session is interrupted when a solemn man with a stern face enters the room. He is brandishing a pistol in an unconcealed holster. “Ma’am,” he says, “could you please turn around for a moment?” My friend complies and turns around. There is a moment of silence, followed suddenly and abruptly by a loud pop. The next sound my friend hears is the door slamming shut.

  This might be a good time to remind you that inside thoughts reside in a place where good taste goes to die.

• One of my favorite weekend activities is playing paintball. I make no claims to being a bad-ass, or to being any good at the sport. I just happen to find the game incredibly fun.
  

  In the dozen-or-so times that I’ve gone out to play, it’s always been on a recreational field full of novices and newbies, just like me. Often times, you encounter a good number of young preteen kids on those “rec ball” fields. I think it’s awesome to see young kids playing the sport. It wasn’t until I hit my late twenties when I finally mustered the courage to play paintball. Those little kids have a lot of heart, and a lot of guts. I really do admire them.

  Having said that, I have to admit that a very small part of me derives a perverse pleasure from lighting up those young kids with paint. I don’t enjoy it because I’m a bully. I enjoy it because little kids make for excellent target practice. They’re quick, and they’re small, and they’re usually more agile than the average opponent. Also, they usually have a lot more stamina than me because I’m a squishy, aging slob. There are few moments in life that are more satisfying than those times when you snap out from behind a bunker, shoot off a string of paint, and then you see your opponent’s hand rise in the air as he calls himself out. The victory is only made that much sweeter when you realize that the arm being raised belongs to a ten-year-old kid. Good game, junior.

I’d better cool it right here with the inside thoughts before I alienate anybody with good taste who might still be reading this post. I’m starting to feel a little exposed right now, so this is probably the ideal time to stop. Thank you for your patience, gentle reader, and for playing your part in this dance of indiscreet madness.

It all started with Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry”. I was flipping around the stations when I landed on that particular song. Once I recognized the tune, I drew my hand away to reach back for the steering wheel, and I started to sing softly to myself. I freaking love that song. Diana dislikes Bob Marley, and I know it. “Fuck it,” I thought to myself. “She already vetoed that 2Pac song because she hates rap. I’m going to ride this one out until Diana starts to bitch.” It didn’t take her long. As I recall, it took her twenty seconds.

“Ugh, I hate Bob Marley,” Diana grumbled, and she started to poke the radio dial.

“Jesus,” I said, “how can you hate Bob Marley so much, that you’ll never let me enjoy one of his songs from start to finish? Is he really that bad?”

“I just don’t like Bob Marley.”

“Goddamn, Diana. You’re so white. Why don’t you go listen to some White Zombie? Or how about some White Town? Remember them? ‘I could never be your woman’? Man, that’s a good song. I bet you like that song, too. You know, because you’re so freaking white.”

Diana is a Caucasian broad. Sometimes the arguments get racial. They just have to. It’s all in good fun, though. Honest.

“Why don’t you shut the hell up, China?” Diana retorted.

See? Things just got racial again. It’s just what we do.

“You know, Diana, I’d accuse you of being a Barry White fan if I thought Barry White were white enough for you. Alas, he doesn’t quite make the cut.”

At this point, Diana stopped acknowledging me. During the six-plus years that Diana and I have been dating, I have come to understand this silent gesture of hers as an invitation to volley more of my incessant, insufferable bullshit. Diana sure has a funny way of encouraging discourse. She’s lucky that she found a guy who can read between the lines.

“Hey Diana, what are you looking for on the radio? Something by the White Stripes, perhaps? Maybe a ditty by the Plain White T’s?”

Eventually, Diana stopped the radio dial on the classic rock station. Typical, huh?

I paused a moment to listen to the music. It was some 1980s rock and roll bullcrap — inadequate, though distressingly memorable in a bad kind of way. This was one of those songs that I had heard many times before, but I’d never bothered to identify the title or the artist.

“Who is this?” I asked. “Fucking Whitesnake or something? It would be just like you to pass up Bob Marley for Whitesnake.”

Diana had finally had enough. “Give me your phone,” she demanded, and she shoved her upturned palm right beneath my chin.

One of the more useful apps on the iPhone is Shazam, a program that allows you to identify the title and the artist of a song that is currently playing. Implicitly, Diana was asking me to hand her my phone so that she could tag the song. I reached into my pocket and obliged her.

Diana fiddled with my phone for about thirty seconds. Then, in a voice that was just barely audible, I heard her hiss, “Oh, fuck you.”

It was Whitesnake. Of course it was! Some days, you just win without even trying.

Dawn: Can you remind me to take my sewing machine home when we come back to your place tonight?

Kevin: Hey Dawn, don’t forget to take your sewing machine home when we come back here tonight. There, I reminded you. Now I’m off the hook for the rest of the day.

Dawn: No, I need you to remind me when we get back here.

Kevin: Right. When we get back here tonight, don’t forget to take your sewing machine home.

Dawn: When we come back here tonight, please remind me to take my sewing machine home.

Kevin: I can do that. Say Dawn, remember to take your sewing machine home when we get back here tonight.

Dawn: I’m not talking about now. When we come back here tonight, that’s when I need you to remind me.

Kevin: So you’re saying you want to leave your sewing machine here in the apartment, and not take it home?

Dawn: I want to leave it here for a while only until we get back tonight.

Kevin: And you want me to remind you to take the sewing machine home when we come back here to the apartment?

Dawn: Exactly.

Kevin: Dawn, don’t forget to take your sewing machine home when we get back to the apartment tonight.

Dawn: No, I need you to . . .

Diana: Would you two shut the hell up? You’re both annoying as fuck.

Kevin: What I think Diana is trying to say, Dawn, is that you should remember to take your sewing machine home when we come back to the apartment tonight.

One day in October 2009, Diana and I were walking down Paradise Pier in Disney’s California Adventure Park, taking in the sights and the sounds, and looking forward to our first ride on the Toy Story Midway Mania! attraction. As we approached the back of the Toy Story line, there was a group of four overweight, middle aged adults who were heading to the same place, but from a different direction, and from further away. Once this group realized where Diana and I were headed, they sped up their pace to a waddling cock-block jog in an obvious attempt to cut us off. Diana and I maintained our leisurely pace, and we still managed to arrive first. Just moments after we had established our spot in line, those fat fucking assholes awkwardly flopped onto the scene like flipper-finned water mammals on land, unceremoniously wedging their way in front of us to cut in line.

Okay, I realize that it isn’t very nice of me to make fun of these people for being overweight. People are people, no matter what their size. And besides, their physical appearance had nothing to do with the situation. Then again, my common humanity with these inconsiderate pricks doesn’t change the fact that they are nothing but fat fucking douches. I guess it’s easier for me to cope with my frustration and stifled resentment if I dehumanize my objects of scorn by thinking of them as fat pieces of shit. Gentle reader, please don’t judge me too harshly. This is how I stay polite on the surface. That’s just how I roll.

Naturally, I was irritated, but I chose to keep my mouth shut. Disneyland is supposed to be a happy place, after all. I wasn’t about to get all gangsta in front of families and children, and start a shouting match at the Happiest Place on Earth. By nature, I’m a pretty non-confrontational guy. Having few other ways to vent my frustration, I pulled out my iPhone, opened the Notes application, and typed Diana a message. Happily, she obliged me by typing back, and we soon realized that we were onto something good. Over that next hour while we snaked through the line, Diana and I enjoyed a silent, yet deliciously passive aggressive shit-talking fest in the medium of text. I saved this conversation and set it aside for nearly a year before I stumbled across it the other day while I was cleaning up the files on my phone. I decided to reproduce the conversation here on my blog for posterity’s sake.

Kevin: You saw that shit, right? These fat fucks in front of us totally cut us off. I’m hating their bacon asses.

Diana: Agreed and what really ticks me off is that they are pretty old and should know better at that age. Rude people grrrrr. I was going to say something when they did it, but then you shushed me.

Kevin: It’s not worth it.

Diana: Fine. But did you hear that bitch on the left? She let those kids cut ahead of them to go find their parents, and then she has the nerve to start complaining about people cutting in line. WTF?

Kevin: Yeah! What the hell was that about? “I’ll forgive young children for cutting, but I put my foot down for teenagers or adults.” Somebody took a bite out of a hypocrite sandwich.

Diana: Yeah she probably took a bite out of four of them.

Kevin: Haha burn. High five. Seriously.

Kevin: I also smell shit / rotten milk. Probably the baby behind us, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the rude fat fucks.

Diana: You sure? I don’t smell anything. Maybe it’s you that smells like rotten milk?

Kevin: Hey, the fat fucks are the enemy, not me. If we turn on each other, then who will unite against these douchebags?

Diana: I don’t know, KFC, Carl’s Jr., and cholesterol?

Kevin: I like that alliteration. That’s a consonance trifecta.

Diana: Yeah you like that? You’re not the only writer around here.

Kevin: Clearly.

Kevin: I’m thinking about what that one bitch said. Do you think these people are actually convinced that they’ve done nothing wrong?

Diana: They know exactly what they’ve done. That tall asshole in blue brushed against me and forced me backwards when they were cutting. There’s no way that wasn’t on purpose.

Kevin: Jesus, I didn’t notice that. I would have let you kick him in the balls if I had known.

Diana: Do you think it’s too late?

Kevin: Yeah, I think the window for justified ball kicking has opened and closed.

Diana: Good job, Gandhi.

Kevin: Right, I’m the jerk for talking you out of getting arrested for assault.

Diana: No, you’re not the jerk. The real jerks are the FFs in front of us. Look at that bitch on the right. Maybe she made them all cut in line because she feels entitled to it. She’s all scarred in the face, so she thinks everyone owes her.

Kevin: I owe her a slap.

Man, it’s awesome when Diana and I unite so strongly over a common purpose. Oddly enough, episodes like this one are the moments when I love Diana the most. But seriously, who goes to Disneyland and cuts queues so brazenly like a refugee in a bread line? Go take that shit to Knott’s Berry Farm where it belongs, you fat classless fucks. Merry Diss-mas, douchebags.

Our relationship has had its fair share of tumultuous storms, but there’s never been a twister strong enough to tear us apart. It’s just too damn fun chasing those storms with Diana at my side. Truly, this is as good as it gets.

I don’t know if this ever comes through in my writing at all, but I can be something of a smartass on occasion. Diana has the patience of a saint to put up with all of the crap I give her. Sometimes I wonder why the Fates don’t just cast me away to a deserted place in order to impose upon me a sentence of lovelorn penance for the way I can sometimes treat her.

In truth, I am a lucky man, and I damn well know it. My love, you deserve so much more than a single blog entry. Darling, you deserve so much more than the moon and the stars, were I ever capable of giving them to you. If I could ever understand what women want, I would give it my all to give you all of it.

Gentle woman, I love you sincerely. I love you madly. Some might say that I’m “mad” about you. You are the Helen Hunt to my Paul Reiser. And if the story of our love were somehow filmed before a live studio audience and subsequently broadcast by a major American network with nearly 200 regional affiliates, we would dominate the ratings on Tuesday nights with the passion that inflames our synchronous hearts. For we are one, you and I, and nobody will deny the strength of our union — except perhaps during the fourth season of our love story, during which it is revealed that you kiss a colleague, and I in turn nearly kiss a colleague of my own. Yet our love shall persevere for a minimum of three additional years, for you and I have committed to each other that we will jump together, hand in hand, into the final frontier.

And though the network might make the mistake of changing the broadcast time of our love story to Monday nights for the seventh season — thus degrading our viewership ratings — our love shall persevere. Onwards we shall roam, paying it forward as we go. I love you sincerely. I love you madly.

I love you, Helen Hunt.

Diana:That’s because all of your references are stupid and obscure.

Kevin: They’re not obscure, they’re subtle. You know, like the “b” in “subtle”? You don’t really notice it in there, and you never, ever see it coming. It’s just a silent letter. It’s kind of funny when you stop to think about the word, actually. The letter “b” subtly epitomizes the very essence of the word, “subtle”. That’s a highly unusual thing, isn’t it? I mean, isn’t it fascinating how the letter “b” in a word like “subtle” can so perfectly illustrate the definition of the word that contains it?

Diana:. . . (sigh)

Kevin: You like that, Diana?

Diana: Nope.

Kevin: That’s always your answer. Do you ever like anything?

Diana: Not anything that ever comes out of your mouth.

Kevin: Well, that’s not very subtle. That’s like the “s” in “subtle”. Or the “t” in “subtle”. Or to a lesser extent, the “l” in “subtle”. Because you see, you hear the “l”, but it’s not as pronounced as . . .

Diana: Kevin, go away.