One of the first rules of being married is putting a limit on the amount of dirty comments available.
My wife doesn't need to hear me talk about how I almost saw down the shirt of the cashier at Burger King. Mostly because she was 250 lbs.
But I also don't need to hear about that new guy in her yoga class and how great he looks for being in his 40s. Or anything about his "downward doggie".
So rather than hold it all in, we each have a few celebrity crushes that allow us to release our innuendos outward.
She has her crushes: LL Cool J, Lenny Kravitz, John Hamm, Me, Robert Pattinson, every Italian soccer player on the face of the earf, etc.
Mine include Marissa Miller, Norah Jones and Rihanna.
Following this system, all was well in the world. When one of these celebrities popped up on the screen, we would let loose with some of the most filthy and disgusting things that would make most rap songs sound like something from Yo Gabba Gabba.
That is, until Rihanna had to go and screw everything up.
You see, she put my last name in her new song, "What's My Name?"
"Oh Nomina, what's my name?
Oh Nomina, what's my name?"
Followed by some lines so filthy Andrew Dice Clay felt uncomfortable.
How do I explain this to my wife? What she thought was just a silly crush is obviously deep, passionate love. Rihanna has it bad, and, while it is hard to blame her (I mean, look at me), I'm a committed man and can't go running off to her private jets to be pampered and pleased as she sees fit.
No, this is my break-up letter to Rihanna. I'm sorry, but this just won't work.
Besides, I'm holding out for Marissa Miller