I was sitting at my desk in the study late one summer afternoon staring out at the Pacific. It had been a long day trading stocks and strategizing tomorrows moves, and I was closing down the laptop when I noticed a disturbance in the water far below and some 20 yards out from the isolated beach; a disturbance that gained in ferocity as I stood reaching for my binoculars. In the depths not far out from the shore break a single Killer Whale had found a mother humpback, and the killer whale was attacking its baby. So, one can imagine a battle titanic of those giant mammals in their life and death struggle and the paternal instincts of the mother to protect her infant. Nevertheless, as I called to my wife in the other room, the water was already flower of foaming blood in the sinking sun. Sensing my urgency she quickly arrived, and I handed her the binoculars, pointing out the direction while giving her a brief description of the event still in full battle. "That whale has got my baby," I remarked with dingo flavour to lighten the mood. Well, I shit you not, dear reader and fellow husband licensed under the brutal dictates of marriage, this is what she said with a face bleached by horror: "You must go down there this very minute and rescue that poor baby." To which I responded: "Consider it done, Madam. Go quickly and fetch my briefest Speedo's in order to reduce drag through the roiling ocean. Then grease me up with premium butter so I might slide through the waves like a fish. And bring me my largest hunting knife so I might swim through the now shark infested waters, through the ten-foot shore break, somehow get between three warring factions of living, fighting flesh weighing some twenty tons in total where I shall smite that Killer whale a mortal blow and rescue yon infant - which is already beyond saving."
A true story, which I often employ as party starter for all her fellow, highly educated radical feminist friends. Because it amuses me. I look forward to incongruous wife stories of a similar nature ..
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