Gloves, Sweat: Tears

It was with a great deal of relief that I looked into the bathtub this morning and saw that my husband had washed his biking gloves and left them to air dry, thereby sparing mankind for a few more weeks. You see I am convinced that the destruction of life as we know it will come about not as a result of alien invasion from outer space or the accidental release of nanobots from the lab or even the unleashing of giant, mutant, killer bombadier beetles. No, life as we know it will end when my husband's bike gloves become imbued with the life force and begin roaming the earth slaying all in their path.

In a general way, I approve of mountain biking. It gets my husband out into the fresh air and gives him a good cardiovascular workout. Plus if you compare it to yachting, it isn't that expensive. The problem lies with the accessories. Better living through Chemistry has resulted in apparel that not only wicks the sweat away from the body it transforms this sweat into a crime against nature, an Unholy Alliance if you will, between perspiration and man-made fibers.

Normally, my husband's sweat is like all the perfumes of Arabia to me. One whiff and every cell of my being instantly decides that it is time to procreate, NOW. But that is in its natural state. What happens when it comes into contact with his biking gloves is something very unnatural.

Lest you think I am some shrinking violet, let me remind you that I live with Fanny whose back-end aromas are no joke. They are enough to make grown men cry "Uncle." But my olfactory organs have been toughened up by constant exposure, and I am proud to say I can survive in a closed room with Fanny for almost an hour without fainting. But the thought of spending more than 10 seconds in close proximity to Dave's biking gloves makes me reel in horror. Which gives me an idea.

I believe I know of a way to regain our national honor while at the same time punishing our enemies. As far as I know there is no Geneva Convention Rule concerning my husband's gloves as yet. So I suggest that the soldiers at Guantanamo Bay should leave off the use of conventional torture. They should put away the dog leashes and the electric cattle prods. They should stop flushing the Koran and stop forcing the prisoners to strip naked. Instead, I suggest that our enemies spend a little quality time with Dave's gloves. It would mean that he would have to ship the gloves off to the prison, but I, being the good citizen that I am, would be willing to make this sacrifice.