"I am going to be so devoted that I will be like a Penelope to his Ulysses."

Inspiring words, or would be, were they not so incredible, "incredible" meaning not credible. My doubt was because they were my ex-wife's words, hand written nearly one year after our divorce for her cheating became final. They were in an invitation to her upcoming wedding.

She moved fast, like the German Army in 1940 cutting through the Ardennes on the way to the Channel, but I was just thinking of the looming Soviet juggernaut on her flank. That's probably because I was watching "The World at War" while reading my mail. Laurence Olivier rocks!

In truth, I had moved on. I had been dating a bit and had found a woman with long-term potential. But this crap was goading me. That's why the bitch sent it. She knew I liked the classics, so that was a dig. And I have a temper. She knew that, too. This was like a dare.

When I found her fucking in my bed, I stopped long enough to take some quick pictures before they saw me, then I kicked the dickweed in the balls a couple of times. As my wife screamed and tried to restrain me, her lover rolling and puking on the floor, I regret to say that, in my passion, I turned and kicked her in her naked, lying cunt. Twice. I didn't think I had connected squarely the first time. I like to do a job right. I then told them that they should thank me for my restraint and that if I even saw a police car pass me anytime soon, I would promptly find them, and Drs. Smith and Wesson and I would do a little street-side brain surgery.

Fortunately, that vigorous physical activity cleansed my soul, and that's as nasty as I got in a divorce that split everything equally with no alimony, thanks to the pictures. Ours was an at-fault divorce state. I let the guy's wife know, of course, but that was not because I was angry. Like I said, I do the job right.

None of that stopped her from campaigning to get me back. She was sorry, she wanted to talk, she wanted counseling, she got her friends and family to call. She sent cards and letters. All. The. Time. That made no sense. She obviously wasn't happy with me. Why couldn't she move on? I didn't know and didn't care. A few months ago, she finally gave up. Now I knew why.

The barest of Internet searching got me to the wedding Web site and let me identify the happy future cuckold. Penelope, my ass. No way would she wait chastely for 20 years for her Ulysses to return. I was only gone for a weekend. I'd give this marriage about 2 years until she was on her back counting ceiling tiles in some motel.

Fortunately, the new guy's work e-mail address was easy to find, plus his phone number. I wrote him an e-mail, attaching copies of my divorce complaint and the decree, both of which named dickweed and listed adultery as the cause. I added the photos from that fateful day and sent a congratulatory note, suggesting that he get a pre-nuptial agreement.

It was a day later that my ex's new beau e-mailed back.

"Why are you doing this?"

I figured I would just call.

"Bros before hoes," I said.

He chuckled. He seemed nice.

"No, seriously. Why?"

I had no reason to be mad at him so I didn't lie.

"My bitch ex, who is now your charming fiancée, sent me an invitation to your lovely wedding. She included a note about how loving and faithful she was going to be with you. That annoyed me. I am trying to move on with my life, but she keeps trying to get these digs in. And I don't believe her. Maybe you do, but that's your problem. I have no clue what she told you about how we split but, on the off chance I can cause her some pain and maybe spare you some grief, I thought I would pass the word and possibly give you a way out."

"Thanks," was all he said.

A few weeks later, I got a voice mail from the ex.

"You bastard!" she screamed. That was it.

Seems the Wehrmacht got stopped at Stalingrad.

I heard later that the wedding was cancelled. What a shame.

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