A Privy Tale

Of our species the female is the most deadly. There are no black widowERs, as I have good cause to know.
Some time back, before attending a large garden party, my wife received what women call a “permanent.” The plain fact is this procedure is a “temporary”, but in any case and by whatever term, I did not like it. Thus, I asked all my friends at the party to approach my dear wife and tell her that her hair looked awful.
They did such a convincing job that she was quite dejected until she found out that I had put them up to the story. She did not say anything but, unknown to me, she made a mighty vow to repay me for my perfidy.
Three weeks later, behind the door of the smallest room in our house, I was reading a competitor’s book and tearing out the pages for dual usage. In the meantime Margaret had covered her lovely auburn tresses with a grey wig which she bought for two dollars and put on an old pair of glasses, thus becoming totally unrecognizable. Then she threw open the door, leaned her head in, and shouted, “Who the hell are you?!”
Startled out of my quiet reverie by this terrible apparition in the privacy of my privy, and assuming that my house was being invaded by Amazons, I leaped up to defend my home and hearth–whereupon this odd voice observed, “You would be better advised to remain seated.”

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