For her fortieth birthday, you commissioned a portraitist to paint your wife's portrait. Naturally, they ran off together. Today you'll find on the mantelpiece her finished portrait covered in brown paper, and a note that reads:
"It might come as a shock to you, but to us it feels inevitable. Look at the painting, see what he sees, and you'll understand why I've left."
You'll rip the paper from the frame and stare into your wife's face rendered in oil. The portrait will be a kind of allegory, with the ring on her ring finger painted to look like a bear trap and in her hands scraps of paper painted to look like a ripped up photo of you and your wife on your wedding day. Copious tears will be pouring from her eyes, and above her head will float a cartoon thought bubble and a speech bubble. The thought bubble will have an image of you as a big fat man with a giant red "X" overtop of him, next to an image of the portraitist naked with generous genitals between his legs and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. In the speech bubble will be the words "Oh how I loathe my husband and long for my portraitist."
You'll let the image seep in and a tear will roll down your cheek. You'll think, "How could I have been so blind to all of this? I should have at least noticed that tattoo on her bicep that reads, "I've made an enormous mistake."
You'll quickly write them a check for enough money to pay for the portrait and to get her started on her long-overdue new life. The life with her portraitist that you've selfishly prevented her from enjoying all of these years, all because you felt the need to cling to your precious little "marriage to the only woman you've ever loved" cock of poo.
Happy Your Wife And The Portraitist Day!
