MEET THE FOCKING BORING COUPLE

Friday I worked a 16 hour day.

Saturday I just wanted to rest. That's all.

Just.

Rest.

Saturday morning at 7 a.m., after four hours of sleep, Andrew bursts into the bedroom, wanting Daddy to come play video games with him.

I tried to talk Andrew into playing video games by himself, but in Andrew's defense, he hadn't seen me since Wednesday for more than five minutes at a time and wanted to play with Daddy.

Figuring I could get a nap sometime during Saturday, I pulled myself out of bed and hobbled gingerly into the den to watch Andrew play video games and to be there when he got into a predicament where Winnie the Pooh needed to climb a ladder to the next level. At that point, the controller is handed to me, I am urged to "play the game" and after the ladder has been climbed, it's back to Andrew wanting to play.

Basically, I'm there to get him over the humps in the game. That's the extent of my "playing".

So I'm sitting there, zombie-style, pretending to watch Andrew play games when Susie emerges all eight-hours fresh from her full night of sleep from the guest bedroom where she sleeps when I work late.

"Goooood MORRRRRRNIIIIIIINGGGG!!" she chirps.

"Fuh you," I mumble.

"Guess what?" she squeals.

"Wha'?" I mumble.

"We're going out with Terri and Nate tonight!" she bounces.

Oh fuck.

Nate is the most boring goddamned person on the face of the planet. A super nice guy, but he takes boredom to a whole new level.

When I heard the news, I quickly scanned my immediate area to secure a heavy object in order to hit my wife over the head repeatedly with.

The best I could find was a TV Guide and frankly, I didn't feel like pulling myself up off the floor to beat my wife with a TV Guide.

Susie's Mom was coming down to watch Andrew/sit on the computer all night so that we could be bored silly by the O'Soborings.

Oh.

I never got a nap on Saturday.

We all sat down and the first thing Terri wants to do is pull out photos of their cats.

Terri's not able to have children. I'm guessing it's because Nate has bored all of his sperm into committing suicide. I dunno.

So she shows photos of their cats to people instead.

These aren't just wallet shots. These are actual 3" by 5" photos that she has to make a special effort to tuck inside her purse in order to show people.

Now ... let me be completely honest ... I have zero fucking interest in looking at photos of anyone's cats unless they've been photoshopped and been given little Hitler mustaches and haircuts. I mean ... maybe that'd be worth seeing.

But if you have a photo of your cat sitting on a chair staring at the camera ... tell ya what ... keep it to yourself and nobody gets hurt.

But because Terri and Nate are such sweet people you have to look at the pictures and say things like "What beautiful cats!" and "Gosh, look at the paws on this one!"

Not things like "Do you really think I care?" and "Have you explored EVERY option for childbirth yet?"

After about ten minutes of gushing about their cats, Nate decides it's time to step into some potentially dangerous subject matter.

"Where do you get your hair cut, Uncle Bob?" he queries cautiously.

Honestly, I don't know the name of the place where I get my hair cut. It's one of those witty play on the word "Hair" like Hair Express or Hair Today Gone Tomorrow. Something like that. I know where it's located and I know how to get there without accidentally finding myself in the drive thru lane at Burger King.

"I ... I don't know the name of the place Nate," I stuttered as I told him where it was located.

Nate then entertained the table with a lengthy story about his hair and how it is sometimes mistaken for a military cut.

Ever tried to secretly slit your wrists with a butter knife in a crowded restaurant?

Trust me ... it takes a while and all you get are sore wrists and worried stares.

Nate got a bit peeved because the restaurant didn't serve lemonade.

"What kind of restaurant doesn't serve lemonade?" he asked us. "Everyone has lemonade!"

"McDonald's doesn't have lemonade," I muttered.

I was assured that McDonald's does carry Minute Maid Lemonade in most of its restaurants. As do most fast food places and restaurants.

I ordered a Heineken.

I seriously don't drink much anymore.

But the situation demanded that I alter as many brain cells as possible in order to make these people seem more interesting.

Our entrees arrived and I had ordered a ribeye with garlic butter and baked potato.

"That looks soooo good," Terri said, gawking at my steak as she hovered over her chicken alfredo.

"It is good," I admitted. "Very good."

"I wish I had ordered that instead," she says.

Now then.

I don't share food with my own wife at a restaurant.

I was NOT going to give this dullard pieces of my delicious steak.

But this was clearly what Terri was steering towards. She wanted to taste my steak and that's not a sexual euphenism.

Susie and I then sat quietly as Nate and Terri talked about their jobs ... Nate as a state employee who works with numbers and some of the most unhysterical people on the face of the earth apparently.

Terri as a failed romance novel writer. Terri was currently working on her seventh novel that hasn't been published ... another romance novel ... this time it revolved around a woman and a man that were kept apart by orders from their respective families ... the man was a prince and the woman a pauper. Or some crazy shit like that.

Susie made the mistake of telling Terri about that "Never Threaten To Eat Your Co-Workers" book that I had participated in last year.

Terri grilled me the rest of the dinner about how to get published.

Hell if I know. The people contacted me and asked to include it in their book. I didn't solicit it.

But ... how do you tell someone "Well I have this website that somebody read and liked and put it in a book."

Then the boring person says "Give me the web address!"

And you say "Oh, I'd rather not. I don't like people I know personally reading it other than a small circle of friends."

And they say "Oh. Is it porn?"

And you say "No, it's not porn. It's just ... it's not really me."

And they're all "I don't understand."

And goddammit ... it's hard to explain Uncle Bob to people that I know and I don't want reading the site.

And I especially don't want the woman reading the book because the web address is included in the book and she'll see that and read this site and be all hurt that I think she and her husband are boring.

So I told her the name of the book was "Goofy Thoughts" and that I thought it was already out of print.

This way, if she looks up a book called "Goofy Thoughts" and can't find it, I'm cleared of all charges.

And if there is such a book, she can order it and find out that I have the pen name of Wilbur Winkle or whoever wrote such a book.

After dinner, we were supposed to go see "The Polar Express".

Yes ... two middle-aged couples going to a G-rated movie because both women were dying to see it.

But Nate and I begged off investing two hours in a theater watching a children's movie on a Saturday night and we went window shopping instead.

I lasted about a few blocks before I said that I had worked a lot of hours in the last few days, hadn't slept much at all and was physically exhausted.

So more hugs were thrown out there for everyone involved and we made promises to get together on a more regular basis.

I didn't make such a promise. I just grimaced as if my testicles were in the mouth of a pitbull.

Susie and I got into our car and headed for home.

Once we got home, we had to listen to her Mom's complete rundown of Andrew's evening.

Well, Susie listened to it anyway.

I went to bed.

But not before lobbing a TV Guide at my wife's head.