Running divorce

Running divorce

By Stephen Philip Druce

I had to divorce my wife for unreasonable behavior. I caught her.

Yes, I caught her jogging with her head positioned lower than her anus — an unforgivable crime worse than adultery, in my opinion.

It was the public humiliation, having to endure the mocking remarks from friends in the neighbourhood: “Hey, how’s Mrs. Anus Woman?” Has she scraped her face on the sidewalk lately?”

The rumor had spread in the town that she was jogging this way, and so my reputation was tarnished irretrievably. It destroyed me — me, a respectable member of the community — 26 years of unblemished service cleaning out the sewers.

Every night, she told me she was working late, but secretly she was pounding the streets in this undignified manner. Filled with emotion, she broke down.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been receiving professional help,” she said. “I’m a ‘jogging with my head positioned lower than my anus’ addict. I’ve secretly run a marathon for charity, too.”

“What was the charity for?” I asked her in a sympathetic tone.

“Well, it was for the terminally afflicted,” she replied. “Sufferers of the most severe forms of athlete’s foot, corns, bunions, and ingrown toenails. You should have seen them cheering me on as I raced with my head positioned lower than my anus, it would have broken your heart. They gave me a standing ovation, barely able to stand, their socks off — toe to heel in foot creams, bandages, foot powder, no longer able to experience the joy of jogging with their heads positioned lower than their anuses.”

The courts granted a divorce, and I was free to remarry. I got married the following year, and my bride ran sideways out of the church in her wedding dress.

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