Yes, at 1.37 in the morning, after a determined walkabout through my diminished liquor cabinet, Colm accused me of sleeping with his wife. His triumphant reveal was unleashed with great dramatic flair in a full on Oxbridge cant. Savoring the moment, he paused and put his glass down on a coaster. He leaned back, joined his hands together with index fingers pointed skyward, placed fingers against his lips, locked eyes with me and smiled. Silently he soaked in the power of lounging on the moral high ground. It really was a moment of high drama. It also wasn’t true.
Colm:
When did it start?
Turdling:
You’re insane.
Colm:
We’re both men of questionable veracity, so don’t bullshit me. Was it while I was at that fucking conference last May? She’s been behaving like a tenured bus driver ever since then.
Turdling:
Why would I let you stay here if I was sleeping with your wife?
Colm:
Said the spider to the fly.
Turdling:
Let’s pretend for a moment that it’s true . . .
Colm:
. . .It is true.
Turdling:
. . .If it’s true wouldn’t I want to spend time with her?
Colm:
Presumably.
Turdling:
How could I do that with my fucking nightly baby-sitting responsibilities?
Colm:
Don’t try to be clever it sounds camp coming from you.
Turdling:
Let it go.
Colm:
We’re going to settle this.
Turdling:
What?
Colm:
Like gentlemen.
Turdling:
Oh, come on.
Colm:
It’s the only way to set this to rights.
Turdling:
Now?
Colm:
Yes.
Turdling:
Oh fuck me.
The gauntlet had been tossed and there was no backing down. It was to be Turdling vs. Colm in an old-fashioned duker to settle a matter of honor. We glared at each other, semi-committed to our course of action, then we arose, like two arthritic spaniels who’d been called to dinner.
The Observations of A.E. Turdling 
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