Given the "ex", I can imagine how you found out.

Long ago, I made a series of drunken errors in judgement as well as flat-out mistakes and ended up married to a pear-shaped, small-busted, red-headed Aries female who had been raised by a version of Cruella de Ville, minus the looks, the class, the height, the voice, the style, not to mention the warm humanity, and her drone, Wimpy.

Well, spawn of demon or no, everything you've ever heard about redheads is true. She's got a substantial booty, and not much fat.

I'm behind her on the brass bed she insisted we needed, and I'm really laying some organic, all-natural pipe. Well, a slight miscalculation sent the fissile missile into the wrong trajectory.

Well, he drove halfway home before he recognized he was on the wrong road. But before I could put the bugle to my lips to sound "Retreat", she come off there like a scalded squid, heading for that damned brass headboard at lightspeed.

And what comes to my twisted gray matter? What's the first image I get, given the important late developments? Jerome Howard with his head stuck in the vertical rods of a brass footboard. Yep, Dad was right when he told my Mom that my watching the Three Stooges wouldn't make me want to hit people in the head with hammers. But he didn't tell her that, handled improperly, Three Stooges imagery can make your fucking head explode.

I used two towels in the bathroom to muffle my laughter. It took a few minutes.