Euche (yoo’-kay): A vow to keep a promise.
I had vowed that “until death do us part.” It was one of the promises I had made on our wedding day. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I made it. I was half drunk and pretty-much in love. We had actually been engaged for six months as a sort of trial run. It seemed to work fine. We had a lot of sex and we both had jobs. We would argue from time to time but it was no big deal. We would argue about favorite songs and Tv shows. Meagan was a great cook. Along with the sex, I thought our marriage was perfect.
But then, Meagan started getting fat. She was on a quest to learn how to make, then eat, the most fattening foods from different cultures. One of her favorites was English trifle: A classic layered desert featuring sponge cake or ladyfingers soaked in sherry, cream, and custard.
Schweinshaxe was another favorite—a giant pork knuckle consumed with 5 or 6 dark beers and followed by a whole Black Forest cake, picked up and eaten like a ham sandwich.
I was losing my mind. She joined a social group called “Chompers.” They were all fat tubs and would get together at a different member’s home every week. Their meetings were “pot luck” dinners. Every participant brought a dish, and they’d eat them—no matter what they were. Meagan told me she had a delicious flattened frog dipped in chocolate the previous week. It nearly made me puke.
Since I had promised that “until death do us part,” I couldn’t divorce or just leave my wife. It seemed that “death” was the only way out—mine or hers. I had taken up with a skinny blond 20 year old. Being with her was like being on vacation. I had become a vegan and was becoming healthier and healthier every day, while Meagan got so fat she got stuck in her chair and the fire department had to extricate her.
I got a hand truck that I wheeled her around the house on, to the kitchen, the bathroom, the dining room and the bedroom. We had food delivered, usually a meal for nine people. I bought a car lift from a gas station, put a sheet of aluminum on top of it and had it installed next to the bed. It was the “Meagan Lift” to raise her into bed.
If I wasn’t careful it would go all the way to the ceiling. That’s when I got my “until death do us part” idea. I’d put Meagan on the lift, raise her up, and crush her on the ceiling. I could tell the police that the lift had malfunctioned—that I had a seizure when I was raising her up to the bed and couldn’t move the control handle.
I went ahead with my plan. I let the lift go and pressed Meagan against the ceiling. When she hit, she dripped body fluids, and blew out a whoosh of bad-smelling air. She was crushed on the ceiling. Dead. I called 911.
I said to the policeman that showed up, “Now that she’s dead, we can part, and honor our marriage vows.” Just then, my skinny blond 20 year old girlfriend walked through the bedroom door. She gave me a French kiss and squeezed my butt. I introduced her to the policeman. He told me to “accompany him downtown for questioning.”
Although I had no history of seizures, the police doctor said “There’s always a first time” and cleared me. The police said of my girlfriend “Jesus Christ what a piece of ass.” I was vindicated on that count too because my girlfriend was irresistible and the police thought I would be crazy not to hook up with her, murder or no murder.
I was freed.
My wife’s remains were cremated. I gave permission for her to be sawed in half to fit in the cremation chamber. I had planned on scattering her ashes in the bakery section of the grocery store, but I got caught, was fined $1,000, and locked up for one month. Now, I’m seeing a court-mandated psychologist. She is big and fat.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu
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