I wish society would quit drawing those pesky lines in the sand, because I continue to inadvertently cross them.
Telling it like it is is the quickest way to get divorced, arrested, shot, maimed or doom a presidential campaign. People scream for the truth, demand it, but the truth is:
“You can’t handle the truth.” – Jack Nicholson
There comes a time in every red-blooded American male’s life when he realizes that the little boy next to him in the sand box is, in fact, a girl. At that point toy cars, baseball cards and frogs take a backseat.
He knows little about them and wants to know more. I could talk about how much he wants to love and cherish them, how much he wants to buy them a BMW or a charming little house in the 'burbs, but this is about truth, remember.
He’s thinking, hmmm, "How do I get me one of those?"
He’s heard that girls are different, and he wants to find out how and why, firsthand. The only information he has so far is gathered from boys on the playground who know less than he does, older brothers, cousins and uncles.
More than likely all of it is wrong. He looks at her and dreams of a world without clothing. She looks at him and dreams of a world where boys wash their hands after wiping their noses.
Somewhere along here a boy first hears the word "polygamy."
Once he understands its meaning, well, first his eyebrows raise, he thinks "hmmmm" again. Boys are deep thinkers. He can’t sleep for a week, and he immediately shifts from trying to select one perfect specimen to imagining being allowed to select four.
If the road to truth is too much, turn around now.
He is not thinking about commitment or relationships, but has taken the world without clothing thing to a new level in his imagination. He now hates Eve for the apple and fig leaf.
Most boys grow out of this, some never do.
After all, the Bible says it’s OK, they point out. There are numerous arguments designed to convince women it’s advantageous for them. Some women will believe anything: Hugh Hefner, O.J. Simpson and that book about Mars and Venus prove it.
I’ll say it, if no one else will. Polygamy is a playground in the minds of adolescent males, sheiks and zealots.
Don’t kill the messenger; remember this bubbled up in the dubious mind of a male. Ladies, feel free to comment from the female perspective, as there are likely more reasons to not marry more than one man than they are for men not to marry more than one woman.
I love my wife with all my heart, but can’t imagine having three more of her. When you get over imagining a world without clothing and the possible benefits of such a world, reality sinks in.
There are not houses with enough bathrooms to accommodate four wives. The are not bathroom counters or cabinets with enough space to allow the hairbrushes.
Your house would need to contain four bedrooms, four bathrooms and at least seven closets, and we must not forget room for a comfortable couch. The reason such situations are generally reserved for sheiks and the like are that the average man could never afford the toilet paper.
There would be so many creams, lotions, paints, pastes and hair products that the house would be classified as a bio-hazard area. Dealing with one woman who has 200 hundred shoes, hairbrushes and personalities is hard enough; now multiply that by four.
Imagine menopause, as all of them reach the age where they alternately burst into flames, their heads spin around backward, and they develop seven new personalities, all of which hate you.
I expect headaches are contagious. If you make one mad, do you think the others will be happy that you stayed out all night playing cards? You, my friend, are sleeping on the couch. You will eat breakfast with four sets of daggers, formally known as eyes, silently burning holes through you. The silent treatment will be deafening.
You might imagine not getting much sleep and all the exciting reasons for it. It might be true in the beginning, but eventually you’ll sleep with one eye open from fear. Sleeping in one house with four women, 12 kids, four bathrooms, PMS, PTA, 20 knives and a bad economy is the stuff of nightmares. But 12-year-old boys don't consider that.
I love my wife, all 12 of her, and I can’t imagine having 36 more of them. That is the single most confusing sentence I’ve ever written and the most mind boggling idea I’ve ever had.