There was a time when my living room was my own.  Every now and then the television would actually be turned off, shocking as that may seem.

Not tonight.

Tonight is a World Series game.  I have been out-voted by a multiple and a nephew.  No idea what those odds are.

My wife is perfectly sane in most other areas.  I have no idea where this sports thing came from.

It’s ugly.

So here I sit, in my computer room, otherwise known as The Womb.  I’m in here because I can’t stand the noise on the other side of the door.

When we first met, I discovered my wife was a woman of many talents.  One of those is whistling.  Not the Bing Crosby tuneful whistle.  No, this is the `put your fingers in your mouth and blow’ kind of whistle that can shatter eardrums within a half-mile radius.  My guitars don’t make noises this loud.

I politely requested she not do that when we were in the same state (under threat of divorce).  She must have forgotten – yeah, that’s it.

It’s not that I mind the alone time.  Heaven knows the Womb could stand some cleaning (for our tenth year in the house, we celebrated by dusting).  And there are certainly a pile of projects that need attention (that I still won’t get to).

I’m kind of afraid for the pets, though.  They’re used to weird but nothing could prepare them for Sports.  I may not see a new episode of House until next summer.

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Have I mentioned that I’m the only one who puts the toilet seat down?  If I did not have the correct plumbing, I’d be checking it tonight.

Signed,

the Anti-Sports