A year or so ago I had dinner with Betty and, always on the make, she asked me, "Are you still as good in bed as you use to be?" "Better," I answered. I only wish. The plumbing goes down hill by 80. At least mine did - somewhat. I can't talk for Strom Thurmond.
Betty and I had become friendly again in our old ages and so I was reluctant to talk publicly about the dark side of our relationship. Not too long ago my bowels would squirm at the mere mention of her name, but the ulcers went into remission in recent years as we shared mutual delight at the success of our three offspring, their strong marriages and the nine grandchildren they produced. I never expected to swear at her again, and would not have, not until this new book of hers came out attacking me. I was quite surprised, but it was in character for her to hit below the belt. So all bets are off. Marquis of Queensbury rules be damned.
Quite vivid in my mind is a midnight in about 1967 - a year or so before Betty and I separated for good. We were living at our Dakota apartment then - Betty disagreed with something I said (that's all it took), went into one of her raging uncontrollable fits, screaming , her face twisted in hate and insane anger, "You fucking no good prick you, you no-good bastard, you fucking bastard, " meanwhile sprinting into the kitchen. Back she came straight at me brandishing two large kitchen knives. "You fucking Goddamn sonofabitch, I'm going to cut your fucking cock off - your big cock it doesn't mean a thing to me." At this I calmly picked up a kitchen chair, nailed her to the wall like a lion-tamer and took the knives away. And that was just a minor incident during that period when her explosive personality was further inflamed by amphetamines she was taking for weight loss, reinforced by alcohol.
Poster Comment:
An insane drunken speed-freak husband-beating ugly Stalinst Jew. Wow!