Dear My Husband Doctor House,
I *can* call you Greg, can’t I? I mean, because it’s your name and all and because we’re married. Wasn’t our wedding day special? I’ll never forget how your mom cried when we said our vows, and how the light caught your eyes justso and they looked as blue as the Caribbean Sea. And that dress that I wore, how we laughed when the cake got smashed on my train, my elaborate, diamond-encrusted 40 foot train sewn with the tears of Bonsai Kitties.
It was the happiest day of your life.
Being married was the happiest you’ve been: we shared a love of Vicodin cuddly kitties and playing air guitar, of blues music and being cranky assbags, and the satisfaction of always being right. Hell, we’re both snarky windbags. It was a marriage made in heaven hell New Jersey.
I followed you through all of your stupid fellows and obvious attempts at emulating reality television–which, I frequently moaned, was kind of stupid. The cases got pretty annoying, especially when Cut-Throat Bitch was front and center. I hates me some Amber.
Shit, I even supported your co-dependent relationship with James Wilson (whom I find ridiculously attractive, but since I am your wife and he is your BFF, that makes it all pretty awkward)(let’s forget that I said this)(seriously, DROP IT) and your mousy coworker who was obviously in love with you.
But I’ve finally hit my breaking point with you. It’s not your addiction to narcotics rainbows and sparkly unicorns or your overall unpleasantness, no.
I CAUGHT YOU HAVING THE SEX WITH ANOTHER WOMAN ON TELEVISION. How DARE you come home to my television after you had sex with that lady with the fantastic rack? How COULD you flaunt that in front of THE WHOLE WORLD? YOU DIRTY BIRDIE!
How dare you act like you’re not married to some anonymous Midwestern blogger who is no longer anonymous but linked inexplicably in all sorts of places to the lady who drank a fifth of Absolut and killed all of those people? Because. OBVIOUSLY. The same thing.
(don’t compare poor taste with drinking a fifth and driving kids to their death)
So I wept to The Daver–sorry about not telling you that I was already married–and he tried to tell me that you weren’t a REAL PERSON. I screamed at him, yelled that our love, OUR LOVE was REAL and that NOTHING he could say could convince me otherwise.
Until he pulled up Wikipedia.
There you were, Greg House, THERE YOU WERE. Turns out that your name? NOT DOCTOR HOUSE. Your name is a ridiculously English one: Hugh Laurie. I could scarcely believe my own puckered eyeballs! I pulled up a Youtube Video to be sure.
And there you were again! Only this time, instead of sounding like a surly American tortured genius doctor, you sounded like you had a mouthful of marbles! And you were making jokes that simply WEREN’T funny and yet an entire studio of wily Brits were laughing like you were making actual jokes! My brain sort of melted because THEY WEREN’T FUNNY.
So I guess this means we’re over, Doctor House Hugh Laurie Vincent D’Onofrio whatever your name REALLY is. Because while I can overlook the 3 children with another lady–HEY, don’t you DARE point out my glaring hypocrisy! There are people in this world without legs and you shouldn’t…oh look! A blue car! Oh HAPPY DAY!
So good riddance, my third husband from television. I’m sure this fall line up will bring me a new husband, a new LESS OLD BALLS new husband.
I Hate You You Philandering Misogynist
Your Bitch Ass Best Be Leaving Me My Vicodin
Your Former Wife,
P.S. Watch out, Cast of Glee. Momma’s HUSBAND-hunting.