An Englishman in New England

Bouncers and bartenders of the U.S. rejoice!

I am now in possession of a state liquor license.

No longer will you have to strain your eyes to percieve the fast-fading similarities between the buck-toothed, crater-faced, four-eyed Gollum look-alike (circa 1995) in my passport, and the tan, handsome, chiseled Adonis you see before you seeking admission/beverages, while sheepishly apologizing for holding up the line.

No longer will you be tasked with deciphering the phrase "Date of Birth" from its french, german and spanish iterations.

No longer will I be forced to go out on the town with the use of only one hand, for the ever-present fear that the black market goblins will whisk my all-important citizenship documents (incontrovertible proof to some government institutions that I actually exist) into the seedy underworld of terrorist forgery the moment my clammy palm leaves my pocket.

Why has this taken so long? Laziness, if not the guilty culprit, is at least a material witness. But the impetus for this bureaucratic power-play is far from ordinary.

According to M, whose body clock is pounding out the rhythmn of a pneumatic drill these days, we need more pussy in our lives. "Tell me something I don't know", I replied, and was rewarded with a special gift I believe you Americans call a 'Charlie Horse'.

When I was able to walk again, M patiently explained to me that she has been waiting forever just to get a cat. I myself miss my own cats, however, I was not as painfully cognizant of my lack of feline companionship. Being the Man of the House, I had to put my foot down. There was only one thing to say to this ridiculously femmy request:

"Yes, of course dear, I'll do whatever you want."

M patiently explained to me that animal shelters require some form of state ID before we're allowed to bring Fluffy the kitten home to shred everything lower than 3 feet and piss on my face while I'm asleep. M, being from the Midwest, has no ID forged in our home state. Ergo, M required me to drag my sorry ass downtown to the RMV for this priviledge.

A couple hours later, I have returned, blessed by the Liquor Gods with the key to the city, and the means of getting as much pussy as I could ever want.

Husbands like me are worth twice their weight in fat stacks of cash and boobies.