Mexico is considering instituting a two-year marriage contract. After two years if everything’s not peaceful in the Garden of Eden, everybody walks away free and clear.
I’ve had cell phone contracts that were tougher. And with them I could upgrade to a newer model.
Somehow I can’t see trying to trade the Captain for more advanced service.
“So it’s been almost two years. How ‘bout I get an Admiral with handyman functions?”
“You want to trade?”
“Yep. I’d like to request somebody that puts soiled laundry in the hamper instead of piling it up in the bedroom like the dirty underwear Eiffel Tower. Somebody who doesn’t go all white around the mouth when I kiss the dog on the lips. Somebody who doesn’t think the term “Balance the Checkbook” means the weight of the receipts he’s saved in his wallet matches the weight of the groceries.”
“That’s quite a list. Anything else?”
“Sure. I want somebody that can put things in the grocery cart without a three-point shot from half court.”
“But he always gets it in.”
“The problem is that he expects everyone in the store to applaud. When he hit the honeybun shot from frozen foods, he wanted me to retire his jersey.”
“Are you sure you want to trade? I’ve heard he cooks, does dishes, and folds towels like a champ.”
“Well, yes. But he’s slowing down. Before long I’ll have to spend a fortune in replacement parts. You can’t get spare knees on e-Bay, you know.”
“You still have ten days to go. We’ll see how you feel then.”
I put on my tri-focals and marked the calendar. My memory’s not what it used to be. It would be just my luck to lose track of time, get stuck with the original model, and realize the power supply is shot two days after the warranty expires.