CHOCOLATE By John Scalzi Chocolate is God's way of reminding men how inadequate they are. I am vividly confronted with this fact every time my wife and I go out to a restaurant. When it gets to dessert, my wife usually orders the most chocolate-saturated dessert possible: It's the one called "Unstoppable Double-Fudge Chocolate Mudslide Explosion" or some such thing. I always wonder why anyone would want to eat anything that promises a catastrophic natural disaster in your mouth. The dark brown monstrosity arrives at the table, and my wife takes the first bite. Before the fork is even removed from her mouth, a small moan escapes her lips. Her eyes, previously perfectly aligned, first cross slightly and then faze completely, pupils dilating in pure chocolate pleasure before the eyelids clamp down in ecstasy. The hand not holding the fork clenches into a fist and starts pounding the table. The silverware rattles. After about six minutes of this, she finally manages to swallow the bite, realign her eyes, and take the next shuttle back from whatever transcendental plane she's been visiting. Slowly, her sphere of consciousness expands to include me, her husband, her life-long mate, her presumed partner in all things ecstatic. "Hey, this is pretty good," she'll say. "You want some?" No, I don't. I want nothing to do with an object that does to my wife in one bite what I've worked for an entire relationship to achieve. It wouldn't do any good, anyway. Men just don't have the same relationship with chocolate that women do. It's not even close. I wandered around the office today and asked men -- "Chocolate. Your thoughts?" -- and the result was always the same. First, a confused look as to why they're being asked about something so trivial, and then some lame, obvious statement: "Uh...it's brown?" Ask women the same question, and you get responses like "The ONLY food group," "ESSENTIAL to life as we know it," and the ultimate casual swipe at every member of the Y-chromosome brigade, "better than sex." Ouch. Some women will try to make up for that last one by quickly adding that chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Uh-huh. Chocolate certainly increases desire; problem is the desire is usually for more chocolate. The best a guy can do is buy a box of chocolates and hope he'll be considered somewhere between the cherry truffle and the strawberry nougat. Don't get me wrong. Guys like chocolate just fine; it's just not essential to life as we know it. Respiration is essential to life as we know it; chocolate is simply one of those nice little bonuses you get. We won't usually pass it up if it's offered, but I don't know too many guys who would get substantially worked up if it were to suddenly disappear from the face of the earth (ironic in a way, as back in the days of the Aztecs, only men were allowed to have the stuff). When I eat a chocolate dessert, I enjoy it, yes. My world view doesn't narrow to include only the plate that it's on. Maybe we're missing something. On the other hand, we don't have to pick up our silverware from the floor after we're done with our tiramisu. Life is about trade-offs like that. All I know is that come Valentine's Day, chocolate will be among the things I offer my wife. I can't truly appreciate it, but I can truly appreciate what it does for her. Which is close enough. copyright(c) John Scalzi John Scalzi is a columnist and humorist living in Virginia. For more columns and essays, visit his website: www.scalzi.com
An old man goes to a church, and is making a confession: Man: Father, I am 75 years old. I have been married for 50 years. All these years I had been faithful to my wife, but yesterday I was intimate with an 18 year old. Father: When was the last time you made a confession? Man: I never have, I am Jewish. Father: Then why are telling me all this? Man: I am telling everybody ...
The Yuppette had risen to executive level in the company in no time at all. Hearing rumors about her, the husband confronted his wife and accused her of sleeping with all of the top level managers. "Now that's entirely false." she cried. "I took the easy route and slept with anyone who mattered at least twice."
So you don't know Jack Schitt He's the only son of Awh Schitt and Oh Schitt. Awh Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married Oh Schitt, the owner of the Kneedeep Schitt Inn. Jack Schitt, their first, passed on shortly after birth. Next came twin sons, Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt, two daughters, Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt, and another son, Bull Schitt. Deep Schitt married Dumb Schitt, a high school dropout. Dip Schitt married Lotta Schitt, and they have a son, Chicken Schitt. Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt, married the Happens brothers. The Schitt-Happens children are Dawg Schitt, Byrd Schitt and Horace Schitt. Bull Schitt just married a spice number, Pisa Schitt, and they are awaiting the arrival of Baby Schitt. So now you know Jack Schitt.
Pope Dies The Pope dies and, naturally, goes to heaven. He's met by the reception committee, and after a whirlwind tour is told that he can enjoy any of the myriad recreations available. He decides that he wants to read all of the ancient original text of the Holy Scriptures, and spends the next eon or so learning the languages. After becoming a linguistic master, he sits down in the library and begins to pore over every version of the Bible, working back from the most recent "Easy Reading" to the original script. All of a sudden there is a scream in the library. The angels come running to him, only to find the Pope huddled in a chair, crying to himself, and muttering, "An 'R'! They left out the 'R'." God takes him aside, offering comfort and asks him what the problem is. After collecting his wits, the Pope sobs again, "It's the letter 'R' ... the word was supposed to be CELEBRATE!"
