Rob's Favorite Places to Masturbate in the Vatican

As the staff married guy, I take a lot of crap from Rob.  Anyone who has read any of his recent editorials knows that he wasn’t kidding when he offered to help me fake my own death an hour before my wedding.  And, hey, I might have taken him up on it if it weren’t for that clause stipulating that my new name be “Julio J. Julio, the Clown Prince of Cock Fighting.” 

Yes, Rob’s opinions on the institution of marriage are well documented both elsewhere on the site and in the Personals section of “Soldier of Fortune” magazine so I don’t need to repeat them here.  But I don’t want our loyal readers, all twenty-one of you horny, gin-soaked, illiterate miscreants, to get the wrong impression of the kind of people that put out The American Jerk every month.  We’re decent, God-fearing people with sucky day jobs just like you.  Just, you know, drunker than you.  Well, I guess there’s that grave-robbing thing too, but I don’t like to go into that too much since that short stint in the aptly-named “pokey.” 

Anyway, I just wanted to reassure you that, when you put aside the dick jokes, the blasphemy, and the thinly veiled call to felonious misanthropy that make this little rag so gosh darned humorous, you’d see that we’re just simple country folk who want nothing more than a spot of tea, some light jazz music, and good wholesome, family oriented entertainment.

COMING NEXT MONTH—A Very Special Month in Pictures Featuring a Dairy Cow Having Anal Sex With a Washing Machine;  A Kiddie Korner Special Edition: Squinty the Monkey Shits on the Disembodied Head of Denis Leary;  and in our annual Travel section, Rob Reuter gives you his “Ten Best Places to Masturbate in the Vatican”.

Look, I like Rob and all, but I just think that he focuses on the negatives of marriage.  For that matter, so do most guys.  But marriage has a lot of benefits that routinely get overlooked.  Don’t believe me?  Well, this month I am here to educate all y’all miserable bastards on the way to make marriage work for you.

First of all, there’s the free sex.  Though you can’t beat free sex, let’s face it—I am not the first guy to point this one out and any humorous comments I make regarding it are going to be really cliché.  That’s right, I refuse to make any jokes here ON PRINCIPLE.  As far as you know, it has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with the fact that my father-in-law visits this site routinely and OWNS FIREARMS.  I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for the daughter of a man who owns a double-barreled shotgun, a rifle, AND a rabbit gun and who stores LIVE AMMUNITION IN THE REFRIGERATOR.  NEXT TO THE MILK. 

So let’s just keep in mind that, on principle, I am refraining from making any crass comments on this subject and that, in one and a half years of marriage, I HAVE NEVER SO MUCH AS TOUCHED YOUR DAUGHTER OR THOUGHT ABOUT HER WHILE MASTURBATING.

Secondly, whenever life hands you annoying obligations that could cut into your drinking, you can blame your wife.

It’s early Tuesday afternoon.  You’ve just returned from your usual thirteen martini lunch.  All you want is to sleep through the rest of the afternoon in the supply closet but then that co-worker with the kids comes over with an invitation to her son’s Bar Mitzvah next Saturday afternoon.  What do you do?  Accept the invitation knowing full well you’ll have to drop some cash on a gift for Commander Overbite and then spend the day in a temple wearing a suit instead of on the couch wearing your weekend briefs, as Yahweh intended?  Or do you fumble for some lame excuse why you can’t clear out a few hours on a weekend given a week-and-a-half’s notice, making yourself look like the jerk you really are?  If you were married, this situation is easy to handle.  “Gee, I don’t think I can make it,” you say, starting to smile broadly, “My wife hates Jews.” 

Just think of the number of situations you can apply this to!  The boss wants you to drive to Maine for a sales presentation tonight?  “Unfortunately, my wife just punched a cop.”  Can you baby-sit your cousins’ kids?  “My wife has smallpox.” 

And you can do the same with thing with your in-laws!  Too many guys whine and bitch about their in-laws without ever truly using them to their full advantage.  Just think how many embarrassing Saturday nights you could have avoided if you just blamed your wife’s parents when those cops show up unexpectedly with the search warrant and the K-9 unit and the three cameramen from Fox:

“Son, I’m afraid we found a large pile of pure uncut cocaine on the table in your spare bedroom.”

“Oh sweet merciful Jesus!  Those redneck junkie in-laws of mine have brought their death candy into my house for the last time!”

“You mean to tell me that it belongs to your wife’s parents?  The retired music teacher and the town councilman?”

“Fucking hippies.”

“Really.  And how do you explain the strangled midget hookers?”

“Oh, well that’s Rob’s handiwork.  That Night Train is a mean wine, you know.  So do you need his home address, or do you still have it from last time?”

And there are many more commonly overlooked benefits of marriage than just these.  But due to space concerns, bandwidth issues, and the amount of wood grain alcohol I mainlined last night I can’t go into all of them this month.  So I’ll save “The Victoria’s Secret Catalog Advantage” and “The Joys of Obesity” for next month when Rob blasts St. Valentine’s Day. 

Remember guys, you’ll probably get married three or four times in your lifetime so, if you take only one thing away from this editorial, let it be this:  Rob and I have a serious jones on for grave-robbing.   So if any dead people have stuff you want, let us know. 

Well, let Rob know…I’m just the shovel guy.