The following is a collaborative effort between Sussman and his best gal Chelsea Lou in an attempt to give people an inside look into the life that is their loving relationship, which is always done on The Obnoxious Couple. Keep in mind that not everything said in the following discussion is entirely accurate, which is usually true in many of Matt and Chelsea’s other posts, but in this case the errors are totally intentional.
The following incident in question happened Sunday on westbound Taylor Road, just west of Michigan International Speedway in Brooklyn, MI. To the best of their knowledge, a woodchuck came in close encounters with Matt’s ’94 Grand Prix, and these are the two accounts of the July 3 happenings:
He said: “I didn’t kill it.”
It was just another day of suffering through Chelsea’s shotgun seat nagging. I’m used to it though, as my ears have become desensitized to my flaws she incessantly reminds me of.
She was going on like some morphine-riddled football coach about how I’m a bad boyfriend because I pull her hair and yell at her in public when a small furry creature scuttled across the street and — THUMP — ran into my left rear wheel.
After some initial concern, I felt a little stirred but not shaken as I looked in my rear window and saw our woodland friend eventually move again and out of harm’s way. (It wasn’t a busy street. It was one of those backcountry 55 MPH Michigan roads.)
The thump wasn’t huge, and Chels didn’t notice it, so I think I ran over its tail (painful, yes, but not to the point where its face looks like Louie Anderson’s jockey shorts). But he lived, and he will continue gathering nuts and twigs for his woodchuck brethren.
But you know what Chelsea wanted to do? Besides complain about my CD collection and for turning up the air conditioner?
Go back and find it. She wanted to “put it out of its misery,” which is ironic considering I’m in a relationship in which I’m waiting for someone to do that to me.
First of all, there’s no good place to turn around on a skinny Michigandi road. Then, if we do turn around, would we even find it? It scampered off and into the woods! It would probably hide and then nibble our toes off! It’s a redneck tragedy waiting to happen! This isn’t Hicksville — we can’t find it, shoot it with our BB gun, and check that item off our rural scavenger hunt list.
I didn’t kill it on impact. If it died, it did so in front of its loved ones and was given a proper burial with a well-catered funeral procession. And regardless of what she said afterwards, I am not inadequate in bed.
She said: “He killed it and got off on it.”
The country drive was not unlike the many others Matt and I have taken. It was a beautiful day in Michigan back country, despite the fact that the air conditioning was freezing and if I had to listen to anymore Journey my ears were going to bleed. But it all changed in one thump.
“Oh shit,” Matt muttered. He had intentionally plowed over an innocent woodland creature, probably with large animé-style eyes and a singing chipper little tune. Gone without so much as a farewell to its woodland friends and family. Taken so brutally.
It was with that that my complacent image of my boyfriend as a compassionate, thoughtful, selfless person was forever altered. Sitting next to me in the driver’s seat was a monster. A heartless, cold monster who is bad in bed and cries after sex and leaves the air conditioning on way too cold.
Being the devout humanitarian I am, I insisted on going back and checking on the safety of the animal. And if it was beyond rescue, the least we could do was put it out of its misery.
What did he bellow back at me? “NO. WE AREN’T GOING BACK, AND I HATE YOU, YOU EVIL, WICKED WOMAN.” I heard it, and so did Jesus.
If the animal was beyond rescue, I felt it was my own moral obligation to end its suffering. My conscience can only handle drawing out the suffering of one hairy, stupid animal, and I plan on marrying Matt … at least until I can kill him off, take the insurance money and run off to Cancun with my trainer. (Note to self: find hot, shirtless Hispanic trainer.)
Because Matt refused to go back and check the welfare of the animal he so ruthlessly attacked with his 2-ton metal contraption of death and destruction, the woodchuck (or whatever it was) likely died a slow, painful death while the lively rabbits and gophers and baby deer pointed and laughed at his grave misfortune. All of which would have been averted if Matt hadn’t been driving like a madman down the country road, set on taking the life of any innocent animal in his path.
And yes. Matt is bad in bed.
I rest my case.