This is Satire. Allegedly: An Agony Column

By: Agatha Agony 

The Oxford Review recently opened our Dear Agatha Agony satire column. Women and men write-in to ask ‘opinions’—emphatically not advice—from Mrs. Agony. Suffice it to say, we have received several rather FUNNY letters, and it would be positively selfish not to share them.

This is the first in our series of Disgruntled Wives’ Letters to The Oxford Review. You can also listen to our video readings with commentary by following us on Instagram @theoxfordreview and @imgoodbella.

We are—figuratively—dying to know what you make of the wife, The Jackass of All Trades (her chosen pen name not ours) who authored the letter below and perhaps more importantly, what on earth do you make of her husband?

Comments are not merely welcome; they are positively encouraged.

As always, if you are a disgruntled wife, husband or single but dating and you would like to write a satirical letter, please DM us on Instagram @theoxfordreview or email us at info@theoxfordreview.com. Full disclosure, instagram is much faster. We await your satirical letters with bated breath and concern (for your husbands) after Mrs. Agony’s reply.

A DISGRUNTLED LETTER FROM THE JACKASS OF ALL TRADES

DEAR MRS. AGONY-A SATIRE

ALLEGEDLY: AN ADVICE COLUMN

Dear Agatha Agony

I am writing you because my marriage of twenty years, which I have weathered with considerable patience, is in the pits.

When first I met my husband, he was a wealthy, dark-haired, pseudo-model type with a cosmopolitan edge over the dysentery-filled dating pool in which we women were drowning.

Of course, he piqued my interest immediately. He was well dressed: no sloppy t-shirts, a moderately civil relationship with leather shoes, a book fetish and a penchant for cooking. He was tidy minimalist and, at times, a perfectionist.

As our marriage progressed, I began to notice small cracks in his persona. It began with delayed dressing in the morning. A sloppy bed here and there. Procrastinated haircuts now and again, but for the most part, I didn’t really notice. It happened gradually, as these things do, until one day it appeared to have happened all at once.

However, it became a problem when we were preparing for our trip to Italy and Greece. Time was tight and he feigned that his barber couldn’t possibly squeeze him in and that no other civilized barber was available on such short notice. So, as we were travelling internationally, I pulled out my trusty scissors and cut his hair.

Unfortunately, I did a good job and the mysterious barber disappeared entirely. I don’t mean he was sleeping with the fishes or anything; but he literally disappeared out of our lives. It was strange but I, of course, week after week, year after year, kept cutting.

Suddenly, I was the barber.

Then, what started out as a fun at-home cooking competition turned into indentured servitude to my pots and pans. I assure you this is not hyperbole.

Prior to marriage, we frequented our favourite restaurants two or three times per week. There was a certain luxury in staring into each other’s eyes as the martinis rolled into our hands with the fluidity of a rushing waterfall. Admittedly, we drank too much and ate very little, but the point remains, we dined out quite a bit.

Ironically, the at-home cooking challenges became increasingly frequent. Knowing that I am extremely competitive, he would very casually show me cooking videos and compliment me saying, 

‘Oh Sophia, I bet you could do this so much better!’ 

He would even smile and tilt his head lovely like an enamoured Labrador. I was so flattered I made it my mission to prove him right.

Suddenly, I was the chef.

That was the first of many ‘honey traps’ he set for me.

Thinking back, he washed dishes every night when we first met. Not so much as a speck in the sink. Worktops were clear. His ultra-minimalist taste left no messes to clean, and his wardrobe was curated to suit his exact needs: nothing more, nothing less. Other than piles of books next to his bedside, which I charitably attributed to his bibliophilic nature, everything else screamed tidy.

Fast-forward, 20 years, and that bastard has not washed a damn dish in about eighteen of them. The truly galling part is that he somehow engineered it to look like it was my idea and choosing. He was clever, I guess.

Of course, I now know how he pulled it off. He loaded the dishwasher with abandon: food defying gravity as it still clung to the plates, dishes laying drunkenly atop one another like they’d collapsed after a night of debauchery, and a dishwasher left unrun for days. I just couldn’t take his incompetence!

When chided, he would smile, kiss me and pat me on the head. 

‘Oh, you are such a perfectionist. You are so much better at this. I don’t know how you do it! I love that about you,’ 

he would say, walking away and looking back lovingly. Like a complete moron, I took it as praise, puffed out my chest, raised my chin and even thanked the heavens that my husband had agreed never to wash another plate.

Suddenly, I was the dishwasher.

Recently he tried to persuade me to shave Fifi because the groomer had nicked her…That made me suspicious. That was precisely the moment reality had set in. I looked back at my life and realized—I’d been duped!

I have been tending garden, homeschooling children, cleaning the bathrooms, mopping the floors, running his office, washing his clothes. Yes, unfortunately, the old red shirt thrown in with whites and a scalding hot rinse cycle got me early on… How could I have been so stupid as to miss that old trick.

Anyway, you get the point. Oh, Ms. Agony, can you save my marriage or show me where to hide the body?

Sincerely

The Jackass of all Trades

The Disgruntled Husband's Reply

DEAR MRS. AGONY-A SATIRE

ALLEGEDLY: AN ADVICE COLUMN

There are always two sides to story, but the dirt flying out of the gravesite that Mrs. Agony’s has uncovered may shock you. 

This is Satire. Allegedly: An Agony Column

By: Agatha Agony 

If you are here, you have probably read the letter submitted by Mrs. Jackass of All Trades (their moniker, certainly not mine). You may have also read my reply. 

If you have not had the opportunity to read both entries, I must say, you should. Allegations were flying off the shelf like lubricant at The Scene. I shan’t explain that one either. It is entirely a British expression and quite unsuitable for a respectable literary publication. You will have to venture onto the dark web and discover its meaning yourself. 

In short, whilst in the throes of interrogating—I mean, questioning—Mrs. Jackass, I found that embellishment had become something of a competitive sport, rather like pickleball. Less flying balls but considerably more marital damage. Rampant, in any event.  

Also, after a heroic period of denial, Mr. Jackass has finally responded. You can read for yourself below and perhaps it will shed some light on her embellishment, his extraordinary obliviousness and the confusing state of their distinctly ‘in-the-pits’ marriage. 

Mr. Jackass of All Trades is catatonically clueless, catastrophically arrogant and categorically and hopelessly crazy in love with his wife Sophia. I believe it will work itself out. 

Or end in litigation. 

You will find that although I have provided pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Jackass of All Trades, I have gone to exceedingly great lengths to conceal their identities. 

One does have standards after all. 

As always, if you are a disgruntled wife, husband or single but dating and making regrettable romantic decisions, and you would like to write a satirical letter, please DM us on Instagram
@theoxfordreview or
email us at info@theoxfordreview.com. Full disclosure, Instagram is considerably
faster. 

*Don’t Forget to Read Mr. Jackass of All Trades’
Reply👇🏻 below 👇🏻

Warmly

Agatha Agony

The Agony Column @ The Oxford Review 

MR. JACKASS OF ALL TRADES RESPONSE:

Dear Mrs Agony

Thanks so much for your kind letter and for enclosing your correspondent’s rather dramatic account. 

Having read it carefully, though, I believe you have reached out to me in error. 

My sweet Sophia adores me. 

Certain superficial details naturally caught my attention. The books. The leather shoes. The European trips. The striking dark-haired, cosmopolitan figure of considerable intellectual, physical, and, may I add, sexual, appeal. The name. 

Yet such superficial resemblances collapse under even mild scrutiny. One must be terribly careful with circumstantial evidence. 

It could not have possibly been my Sophia that wrote that letter. My Sophia terminated my barber almost 18 years ago in a fit of jealousy. A fiery side, I must admit, that I adore.  

My wife, for example, is very keen on cutting my hair. She runs her hands through my scalp and shows her love and affection. Sophia is the best at literally everything she sets her mind to, even when it is simply trimming my ear hairs! 

Why on earth would I take that away from my lovely Sophia? It would be incredibly selfish.  

The cooking stories are oddly similar, with the exception of only a few details. My wife takes immense pleasure in producing excellent meals and great pride in rewashing the dishes after our ‘incompetent housekeeper’ finishes. Those were her words, certainly not mine, as after a few disasters and sharp tongue-lashings I have not been welcomed anywhere near the dishwasher in eighteen years. I simply would not even know how to run it at this point. One respects boundaries in a marriage. 

No one can run a house like my Sophia. 

It is implied that this rather dastardly husband manipulated his wife by suggesting that she could cook better than others. First, I absolutely agree that man is conniving! 

Especially as, absolutely no one cooks better than my Sophia.

As for the suggestion that I forced (encouraged?) my wife to groom our dog... While it is quite odd that the author’s dog is also named Fifi, our groomer had actually nicked dear Fifi, causing untold emotional damage. In our case, I simply mentioned that Fifi needed a competent groomer, ‘like my lovely wife.’ I insinuated nothing, and if she cares far less for Fifi than I, who am I to judge her. 

In my opinion Sophia does no wrong.   

Indeed, Mrs Agony, your correspondent cannot be my wife because my wife would certainly have told me if she felt strongly regarding an issue; what kind of person would bottle up frustration, anger, and disdain in such a way, only to vent it in an agony column viewed by millions, rather than share a concern with their spouse? Clearly, this is not something that a wife would ever do. 

And certainly, never ever, my Sophia. She is much too sensible. 

Yours, in obvious innocence,

The Wrong Husband, definitely NOT Mr. Jackass of All Trades (Rather, it would be Doctor, Professor Jackass of All Trades, in any case)

P.S. Please address any further correspondence to my wife; she handles my paperwork and will know how and where to file it appropriately.