Fair warning, folks, I’m going to quote nearly an entire article written by Jim Belushi here. It may seem like unsolicited punishment for you the reader, but I simply wouldn’t be doing my job if I let this slip by without inspection. So, Jim Belushi wrote a column about relationships for the Chicago Sun-Times. This column depicts Jim Belushi not as man, but as cartoon-man, a caricature of “dumb husband” from an infomercial, the guy who shows up in a black and white flashback trying to put an entire pizza into the toaster, or who becomes angry and confused when he proves incapable of opening a milk carton. It is a women-be-shoppin’ joke come to life, delivered as a life-lesson without irony.
Yes, I am on my third marriage.
Maybe not the best way to start a relationship column, but perhaps the irony is intended. Proceed.
But I’ve learned a lot of things during those marriages to make this one work; I’ve learned lessons from mistakes. If you don’t, you’re an idiot. When I met my wife Jennifer, I couldn’t wait to exercise what I had learned. It started on the third date.
“I took a pull on my scotch, and when she sassed up, I reared back so as to smack her one, but then I thought, ‘Hold on, Belushi. Let’s do it different this time.'”
I was driving down Montana Avenue in Santa Monica…
Suddenly you understand why people are always talking about streets in SNL’s The Californians sketch.
…and Jenny was sitting in the passenger seat. Here comes the test, guys, for a successful marriage: She lifts her hand oh-so-gently, sticks her finger out, and points at the next street and says, “Why don’t you turn here? It’s shorter.” I stopped the car, pulled over to the side, took off my seat belt, did a full, dramatic turn and looked at her in the eye. I said, “I think you’re cool, but never, ever e ver tell me where to go in a car. Never point to a street, never tell me which way is shorter, never talk to me about directions while I am driving my car. Never make a sound like an ‘oof’ when there is a car coming near us. I am the master of my car. I am in charge of machinery. This is my Batmobile. Robin doesn’t tell Batman where to go. I will decide, right or wrong, which way we are going … But I still think you are cute. I like you.”
I have this theory about old action stars, that they star in so many movies playing the same type of character, they start to think they are that character and start seeing the world like it’s one of their movies. You see shades of this in Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Clint Eastwood, and especially Chuck Norris. It seems the same has happened to Jim Belushi, where after too many episodes of According to Jim, his life has become one big shitty sitcom joke, where you just toss out a cliché and hold for laughter. “Look out, woman! Man watching game! No ask direction because tools!” (*Tim Allen grunt*)
Guys, I want to tell you, it worked. I have been with Jenny now 17 years.
And all because I told her to shut her stupid shrew mouth that one time, I’m a genius. For those of you on your first marriage, let me tell you: gold-digging third trophy wives are the undisputed world champions of shutting the hell up.
Six months ago, I made a mistake. One stupid mistake.
I feigned interest in something she had to say. What a clown!
I don’t know, I must have been tired, or maybe I was thinking about sex. Most likely, I was thinking about sex.
Because I, Jim Belushi, am a sexual being. Here, take an air-sickness bag.
I said, “Hey honey, which way do you think is the best way to go to Hollywood? Sunset or Wilshire?” I opened the vault. Now I have Chatty Cathy in the traffic chopper sitting next to me. “Why are you in the right lane? You know there are potholes in the right side. You should always been in the left lane on Sunset. But switch into the right lane before Beverly Glen this time of the day. No, that’s ridiculous going that way, too much traffic. You should … You should … You should …”
Holy shit, his “stupid mistake” is actually “asking a woman’s opinion about something.” That’s not even a joke.
“Dam—” I say. “You should shut up!” And she looks at me like a wet cat that’s been startled by a dog. She says, “I thought you liked it when I helped you?” … I don’t know how long this marriage is going to last.
A… wet cat that’s been startled by a dog? What the f*ck kind of simile is that? Why would the cat need to be wet to be startled by a dog? Cats hate water, if it’s wet, it’s already startled. I get the feeling that in Jim’s mind, the cat wife was taking a shower when the oafish dog husband barged in unannounced to tell the cat about his new belt sander. Jim Belushi even sees the animal world as a shitty sitcom. “And here, the zebra is yap yap yapping about her day when all the lion wants to do is take a nap…”
It’s no better when I’m driving by myself. I put on my navigation system. Now, I’ve got some other woman telling me, “Turn left in 60 feet.” I can’t get away from these bossy women! Now she’s telling me what to do and she’s not even saying my name or “please” or “may I suggest” or “what do you think if … ” It’s just “ Now, do this.”
And when you tell ’em to cram it, they don’t even listen! It’s like these robots don’t even care about my syndication money!
If you don’t listen to her (because you know better), the next command I swear is snippy and hurt. And now I look like a jerk to the other drivers as I am yelling at the navigation system.
Eh oh, an’ what’s da deal wit’ airline food? You kin have dat one, Jay Leno, OH!
So I think the best thing to do, first of all, is never drive with my wife again. She can walk.
High five, bro. This is totes like when Fat Dave took that Asian theta to anchor splash and she was trying to play tight so he made her walk all the way home from the cliffs after tequila sunrise, even though his mom’s Benz seats five. Cockblocks walk, that’s how a real bro roll.
But I also want to change all the guys’ navigation systems to my voice. I’ll call it Belushi Navigation. I will say things in a calm voice like, “Hey man … what’s up? Oh, there’s always a lot of traffic on the Kennedy going downtown at this time. God, all I see are red brake lights. I don’t know, hey, you could get off at Harlem, go down Higgins, pick up the 94 closer to downtown. Or … you could stay here … because you know what you’re doing, man. You’re the master of your car. You are in charge of this machinery. You’ll get us there.”
You look pretty swoll these days. You takin’ creatine or anything? How much you bench? …What would you do if I tried to kiss you right now?
Or, “Go ahead. Make the U-turn here. It may be illegal, but the cops aren’t out.” My favorite is, “Slow down, what are you rushing home for … some dinner party your wife wants to go to? Admiral Strip Club is on Lawrence and Pulaski. Now, turn right in 600 feet.”
“My favorite is…” Your favorite of what? Fictional, stereotypical situations you just invented? “But by far my favorite of the jokes I cracked myself up with in the shower is…”
Jim Belushi donated his fee for writing this column to the Chilmark Fire Department.
Phew, thank goodness. It would’ve been a pretty bush league move if a huge star like Jim Belushi accepted the millions of dollars in unmarked bills and velvet sacks of precious jewels the Sun-Times tried to give him for writing this incredible column. But Jim Belushi is Batman. Batman doesn’t accept gifts, no matter how grateful people are. He saves kittens because kittens need saving. This kind of knowledge shouldn’t be owned by one man, it belongs in a museum. The museum of human knowledge. “Jim Belushi doesn’t like chicks givin’ him advice.” Put it right in there next to fire.