While watching a football game, my wife noticed something on the quarterback: A wristband with all the plays written on it. Her observation spurred yet another epiphany: Fact-Filled Wristbands for Oblivious Husbands.
Many QBs will wear a wristband that has the names of all the plays, and they’ll refer to it as the signal comes in from the sidelines. I explained this to my wife, moments before she picked up a beer bottle and smashed it over my head.
When I came to, my wife was gone, and a calendar was on my chest.
A date was circled: Today. Our anniversary. D-oh.
Plucking glass shards from my noggin, I cursed the Gods for giving me the ability to remember who started at cornerback for the ’78 Green Bay Packers, but will not let me retain relevant facts.
I can’t remember our anniversary date. I also struggle with recent illnesses the kids have had or the color of the carpet we used to have in the living room.
Not knowing these answers can be hazardous to your health, as evident by the gash on my head. That’s why the QB wristband seemed like a perfect tool for the game of life.
See Dick Put On Wristband. See Jane Smile.
I spent the rest of the day creating my own personalized memory-jogging wristband. I had to consult old calendars, grandparents, and even my own children (how old are you again?) but soon my wristband was intact.
The next morning at breakfast, I gave my wife the surprise of her life.
I glanced at my wristband then said, “Hey, it’s your Aunt Bessie’s birthday next Sunday. Should we send her some flowers?”
Her jaw dropped.
“I remembered it,” I continued, stealing another glance at the wristband, “because that was right about the same time Anna had chickenpox.”
My wife lost consciousness, but when she came to, she kissed me and praised God for having replaced her husband with an organism that has a brain.
I realized what a kick-butt invention I’ve had on my hands, and I quickly went into mass production. Soon men all over the world were wrist-banding themselves with relevant facts, and divorce rates declined tenfold.
This was all well and good until we collective menfolk shot ourselves in the foot. Because we were in such good graces with our wives, we got to have a boys’ night out together.
Gathered at ye local tavern, we threw our wristbands into a pile, happy to be rid of the damn things and free to remember only idiotic facts.
When it was time to go, we couldn’t figure out which wristband belonged to which guy (heck if any of the dates looked familiar, or the names of our children.) Of course we all selected the wrong ones, and beer bottles are subsequently broken over our heads when we returned home.
This phenomenon occurred all over the country, and my wristband idea was kicked to the wayside. Back to square one.
So please, the next time you see me walking down the street, be sure to stop me and wish me a happy anniversary. Then be so kind as to tell me when it is.