Hey, there’s the happy couple again doing happy couple things. Like scowling. 

As promised last week, here is the eagerly awaited response from Jennifer Ginsberg’s husband about her oh-so-fun and insightful column “5 Things I Hate About Marriage.” Will Jennifer’s husband set the record straight? Does he get to give up the ghost on Jennifer’s annoying habits? Is he anything more than a mealy-mouthed little manservant to her? All those answers and more are but a click away.

5 Things My Husband Hates About Marriage

A husband sounds off on his top five pet peeves of marriage.

By Jennifer Ginsberg

Hmmmm… her name is still in the author space. Fishy.

After my brutally honest essay, “The Five Things I Hate About Marriage,” Adam has finally prepared his rebuttal. Here are the five things my husband hates about marriage.

Okay, at least this dude finally gets to speak for himself.

1. Bathroom sharing. He seems to take issue with my hair. Yes, it is long. Yes, it is dark. Yes, he loves to run his fingers through it. But he does not like to see it in his brush, in the sink, on the floor, and in the shower.

Whoa, wait a minute. He doesn’t even get to write the thing himself? He gets whatever he said filtered through his wife? That’s some yellow fucking journalism right there. She’s flogged him in public, promised him a chance for rebuttal, and taken over as scribe once again. I officially hate this woman and feel bad for cool, rational women everywhere. Too many times (and especially in dating advice columns) you get miserable, unfuckable hedgehogs like this giving you all a bad name.

He also does not seem to understand why I need to keep an artillery of products on the counter, poised and ready for combat, at all times. Are a round brush, a vent brush, three combs, and 15 different types of leave-in conditioner all really necessary? “And why do you need both a flat iron and a curling iron to be plugged in at the same time?” he asked me the other day, completely bewildered. “What’s the meaning of life?” I responded, knowing that neither question could ever really be answered.

Alright, nothing more than a flippant comment for an answer! Translation: I don’t know why I need all this crap, nor do I even care. So deal with it, asshole. I don’t have to justify anything to you because you’re a big stupid man. I love that in the last article she complained about sharing the bathroom, but with both sides of the story in front of us now (and no less than her own admission), it seems like Adam is the one doing all the sharing in this house.

And just a general word about hair in the sink: Gross. Whether it’s long, dark strands from your dome, stubble from your Mach 5, or god-forbid, pubes – no one should have to come upon someone else’s hair in the sink. Seeing a big clump of someone else’s DNA in the same place where you brush your teeth will make you think, “Hmmm, I wonder which form of murder is easier to conceal: Arsenic or strangulation?”

Reasonable artist rendering of Jennifer & Adam’s sleeping arrangements

2. Bed sharing. According to Adam, he is getting a lot of action in bed, and it comes in a variety of ways. Whether his covers are getting ripped off, or his pillows are getting pulled out from under him, he can always count on me to suddenly arouse him from the deepest sleep. Speaking of getting aroused… “When is the best time to initiate sex?” he recently inquired. My answer: Not when I am tired, sleeping, writing, doing yoga, having PMS, having my period, ovulating, or feeling fat. It’s really not that complicated, is it?

Who the hell are these people and how do they sleep so violently? Corky the spazzmatic night terror-having freakshow toddler thinks they sleep rough. No wonder they hate sharing a bed. Maybe when Adam crushes up the Ambien in Jennifer’s pudding like I suggested himself, he should fashion himself a belt of NyQuil too. Or maybe they should get separate beds like Ward and June Cleaver or Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy in Cocoon. Then they could push them together when they want to get intimate 40s style! Keithage had a similar idea in the comments section Pt. 1. I expanded it.

As for the second part: Congratulations, Jennifer! This is officially the 1 millionth joke featuring a comically exaggerated (or maybe not, which is even sadder) list of times a woman doesn’t feel like having sex! Let’s look behind Door #2 for your prize. Why it’s your husband drinking champagne off a hooker’s tits in Reno! Congratulations, your frigidity has led your husband to pay for sex! You must be very proud.

3. Nonstop compromise. Adam grew up eating fast food, Chinese take-out, and Hostess and Nabisco snacks. I am an organic, mostly vegetarian type who hates anything processed. Shortly after we were married, I unceremoniously threw out his Wonder Bread, Ding Dongs, and Ritz crackers in one fell swoop. He didn’t know whether to slowly stab me to death or sit shivah. “I cannot live in a house with Wonder Bread!” I declared. End of discussion. “This is called compromise?” he asked me, as he tried to choke down a piece of whole grain cardboard.

I am now convinced this is Dick Cheney in drag writing this column. Who fucking does that? Who has the ego necessary to just casually throw away the food someone else has legally purchased? This woman clearly has zero respect for her husband if she has no qualms about imposing her will upon him without even talking to him first.

She’s not entirely to blame though. This doofus seems to just sit idly by while his dictatorial, narcissistic, self-aggrandizing shrew of a wife does whatever the fuck she wants. All he can muster is, “This is compromise?” Fuck you, you joke of a man. Get in her face once in a while and show some balls. She’ll either back down and start to make some real compromises or divorce your sorry ass. Either way, you’ll both be much happier.

On an unrelated note (I just have no place else to put this): Adam doesn’t even get to share the 5 things he hates about marriage. He merely gets to offer some token responses to the five things Jennifer wrote about last week. Dick Cheney controlling the info indeed.

The real author?

4. Civility during PMS. Granted, I feel bloated, my breasts hurt, I’m tearful, and my clothes don’t fit. But Adam would like to set the record straight: He is not responsible for my condition. “So, please, please, please stop blaming me,” he begged, when I interviewed him on this topic. “Just go into isolation and eat your chocolate chips and peanut butter and let me be.”

This whole paragraph is just so sad, somewhere someone is murdering a unicorn with the stolen, sharpened crutches of teary-eyed orphans and doesn’t care because this couple’s marriage is so broken, he weeps in the hope that divorce will allow them to free each other from the horrendous shackles of blame-casting, self-loathing, and misdirected aggression that punctuates seemingly every interaction these two zombies have with one another.

5. Having to accept the other men in my life. Ever since Adam and I met, I have been having passionate love affairs. While the names and faces of these men are different, they are universally responsive to my needs and provide me with unlimited stimulation. You might even say I am addicted to them. I go to bed dreaming about them and wake up thinking about them.

And finally we get a full picture of why they can only have sex every equinox or so. She’s busy fantasizing about the nerdy, hipster asshole behind the counter at the coffee conglomerate. She’s in bed flicking the bean picturing some horn-rimmed glasses-wearing, 5′ 3″, 115 lb., faux hawk-having, Elliott Smith-worshipping, ironically detached, directionless pile of vintage cardigan angst savagely pushing the easy listening CDs off the counter, mounting her on the precipice next to the espresso machine and ramming home his 3 inch dick repeatedly while she sucks the foam out of the espresso maker like she’s sucking the shame off a Japanese game show contestant. Nice.

They are the unsung heroes in my life: the Starbucks baristas who make me my nonfat extra-shot soy lattes and iced green teas (no water, no sweetener). I run to them first thing in the morning and throughout the day. At times, I even make Adam face them to get me my fix. He does this without complaint, which is one of the many reasons I love him. I admit, it is an unconventional arrangement, but we make it work.

If Adam really has to go on coffee runs for her like the pathetic lapdog he is, and she’s really this addicted to coffee, Adam needs to pull a Leaving Las Vegas on her. Bring the coffee home, wait for it to cool (substantially), then stick your cock in it and make her lick the coffee off your love pole before you’ll give her the rest of the cup. True, you’re not helping her unhealthy coffee fetish, but since she’s already got the wires crossed like George Costanza anyway, might as well get your knob slobbed however you can.

Finds pastrami the most sensual of the salted, cured meats.

While the union of marriage offers incredible benefits, it can also be a major pain in the ass for both sexes.

I have yet to hear any benefits of marriage from this unhappy schweinehund. Maybe it’s that she’s mostly married a doormat. Of course, she did spend her last 800 words complaining about him, so maybe not.

However, I believe that by accepting our differences (rather than denying them), even the most frustrating conflicts can be navigated with mutual respect and a good sense of humor.

Translation to Adam: You accept my differences, and shut up. Aren’t I funny?!

We make it work. We understand each other. As long as I have my soy latte and there isn’t Wonder Bread in my pantry … and as long as Adam occasionally gets aroused from his deepest sleep, we are both happy!

Neither of you sounds happy. You sound like the very definition of anti-happiness. If such a word existed, that is.

Unhappy and emotionally stunted articles like this one have poisoned the well of relationship advice. People unqualified to write advice about how to interact with a Wal-Mart greeter get to write columns on how best to handle life’s most important partnership.

That’s why the Love Lounge lives on. See you back here next week where we’ll deconstruct more of this ridiculous nonsense.