My Wife the Domestic Terrorist

At home I live in fear. A furtive glance over the shoulder in the Kitchen. A shadow of dread in the Lounge room…

Is she around?

And isn’t that what the terrorist does? Makes us live in fear?

We all know the scourge of terrorism is spreading its tentacles. Even the peaceful backwater of suburban Australia is not out of its grip.

This she wants me to wear. On my nipples and scrotum.

Terrorism. It can come in many forms…the crazed beheading jihadi…the greenie spiking the trees with iron bolts… the hipster supporting the islamofascists Hamas against poor little Israel…

And now it is even reaching into the home. Let me tell you about the diabolical threat of the Domestic terrorist.

I didn’t do anything wrong, obviously. But she was on my back. Day and night. I’m always checking my phone… to see if she has too.

My domestic terrorist looks meaner than this one playing the piano...

Some days she pulls a knife out the drawer. She slides the blunt edge across her neck looking at me.

What more fucking proof do you need!

Now they got these super snooping powers surely Tony, or George, or Malcolm, can do something about her.

Put ASIO on the case fer gawdsakes!

Now I know she doesn’t wear a burka, but my lord she has that terrorist scowl! If I even raise my voice her eyes stare me down.

What can I do? I am trapped in a web of her making... 

Forgot those ISIS clowns send the SAS to me. Now.