Onion humor

Doing a bunch of admin, updating my RSS feeds and all that kind of thing. Couldn't find this column, one of my favorites, but did a search and found it in text form. Preserved here in it's full cynical glory (via the Onion):

December 20, 2000
               
Darling, will you spend the next six to ten years with me?
By John McNally, The Onion Web site

Darling. We've known each other for more than a year now. During that time,
we've shared so much--our hopes, our dreams, our fears. I know when I met
you I wasn't thinking of starting up a serious relationship, but my
admiration and respect for you quickly blossomed into love. You're my best
friend and my confidant, and I can't imagine spending the better part of the
next decade without you.

I know I've been vague about taking "the next step," but all that has
changed. Your patience, loyalty, and love have made me see the world in an
entirely new light. It's a place where true love can exist. So I ask you,
Julie Bramhall... Will you spend the next six to ten years with me?

I realize it's sudden. We just moved in together three months ago, and I'm
still looking for a better-paying job. But when I look into your eyes, I see
all the things I never used to want. A big wedding. Kids. A house with a
white picket fence that I'll have to move out of in about seven years when
you discover I'm sleeping with my secretary. I never thought I'd say this to
anyone, but you're the only one I want to wake up next to for the rest of my
thirties.

I remember telling you early in our relationship that I never wanted to get
married. But, sometimes, I stay awake after you've fallen asleep and just
look at you and stroke your hair. I can't believe what a lucky man I am.
When the moonlight hits your delicate features just right, I see an angel.
An angel who will turn cold and indifferent to me in five years because of
festering resentment over my drinking. But if I could only capture how you
look on film during those moments, I swear we could make a million dollars.
God, you're so beautiful at this stage of your life.

Did you know that most of my friends are amazed that a woman of your caliber
would even be going out with me, much less be interested in marrying me?
They're always talking about how smart, funny, and drop-dead gorgeous you
are. I have no choice but to agree. When I take a step back and look at
things, there's no reason someone so luminous should be interested in a guy
like me. Of course, I always point out to them that your looks will be
pretty well faded by 2008. But when I think how stunning you are now, I can
only shake my head in disbelief.

Marriage is a big step to make, I know. But when I think of all the memories
we've shared together, it makes me want a medium amount more. Do you
remember that time we stumbled onto the bridge in Georgia overlooking a
moonlit river, and we just held each other close, watching the waves gently
lap on the shore? What about all the Sundays we lay in bed together until
early afternoon? I cherish these memories, and I want to share more until
our relationship is reduced to screaming fights, endless hours of legal
battles, and an attempt on your part to stab me with a potato peeler.

If you asked me two years ago if I was ever going to want kids, I would have
looked at you like you were crazy. But sometimes, when I'm walking with you
hand in hand, I imagine us pushing a stroller. And I like that image. I see
us with two kids, a boy and a girl. That would be perfect. They could hold
each other up after I'm gone.

I really think you'd make an incredible mother, Julie. And I think you'll
eventually make a great single mother, too. You've got that inner strength.

You don't have to answer right away if you don't want to. It's a big
decision, and I wouldn't want you to take it lightly. Think it over. Talk to
your friends and family. I already asked your father for your hand in
marriage, and he gave his blessing. But before you answer, you should know
that I truly do love you and want to spend nearly a decade with you. Without
you, my life is incomplete. At least, until I meet our daughter's dance
instructor.

So, please, Julie Bramhall... Say you'll grow early middle-aged with me.


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