I’m Combat Divorcing My Husband
We Had a Good Run, Someone Hand Me a Sword
It seems the time has come. My husband and I will be joining the other 50% of marriages and ending in divorce. Our wedding was heavily influenced by his modern Jewish family traditions so we decided it would make sense for our divorce to be influenced by my medieval European family traditions. We will be divorcing through combat.
We’ve spent about 2 weeks laying out the rules with our unlicensed life coach trying to figure out how to make sure this is a fair fight. In the end, we think we have found a very fitting solution. We will be in an 8 foot by 8 foot arena with a 3 foot deep hole in the center. My husband will have one hand tied behind his back and will be wielding a wooden club. I will be wearing 2 and a half inch stilettos and wielding a thigh high sock full of quarters. My husband will stand inside the 3 foot deep hole. His objective: pull me into the hole. My objective: pull him out of the hole. This is just the beginning.
Our divorce shall be held on the next full moon so that we may both be at our peak, physically and spiritually. If on the next full moon it is raining, we will defer to April 20th so that we may both be stoned out of our minds and so may the audience.
Whoever wins our duel shall be declared winner of our divorce. They will get our house, our car, and full custody of our beautiful, intelligent, and kind 12 year old daughter Jenny. The loser will get full custody rights to our 14 year old loser son Greg and have to pay college tuition for both our kids, assuming Greg even gets accepted to college.
We want our divorce to be just like our wedding, cheap and intimate. Our arena will be set up in our local park where we used to go on picnics together, where our daughter kicks ass at her middle school soccer games, and where our son smokes shitty weed and listens to matchbox 20 with his degenerate friends. The only people who will be invited to watch our divorce will be our daughter, our parents, my husband’s mistress, my hair stylist, the man who performed my son’s bris, and a team of notaries who will be acting as referees. We will be serving finger sandwiches and capri suns, but you must bring your own lawn chairs. I mean, come on, we’re not made of money, we’re divorcing by combat.
We had such a wonderful marriage for the last 17 years. We have a lovely home, a very well-adjusted daughter, and we have Greg who must count for something. He had to go and ruin it all by sleeping with his secretary. He says it was a mistake and that it didn’t mean anything. You know what I say? En Garde.
