November 2004 (v7 i3)
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Please help me escape this relationship
by MacGyver, Stuck in a Rut

Okay, honey. I'll talk to your mother in a minute.

Somebody please help me. In the past, I could escape from three-foot-thick prisons of solid concrete using nothing but a pocket knife and cursory knowledge of chemistry and physics, but now I can't even escape from this relationship.

Life used to be pretty good. Danger. Excitement. Homemade gadgets.

But ever since I retired from my job as a special agent at the Phoenix Field Foundation to provide emotional support for Linda when she moved to New York to pursue her fashion design career, I've felt trapped. And for those of you who know me, Angus MacGyver, trapped is not a word I'm used to hearing.

Sweetheart, I'm busy right now. Gimme a sec.

There was a time when I could gerry-rig a circuit board out of a tennis racquet, a plastic spoon and some loose wires to disarm a plutonium trigger. Now, I can't even come up with an excuse to skip out on Sunday Mass with Linda's parents — and I'm Baptist!

Look, I promise I'll change Mikey's diapers when I'm done.

Just the other day I was out in the garage trying to mix equal amounts sodium penathol and reduced bifloxate Xelium to create a more environment-friendly gasoline substitute for my Kia Sephia when Linda asked me to come inside and watch Dr. Phil with her. When I told her I was too busy, she just laughed and muttered — just loud enough for me to hear — "you're always too busy."

Guilt trips used to never work on me. Back in the day, when a beautiful yet deadly Russian villainess would try to seduce me into divulging high-security computer access codes, I'd always say, "tempting offer, but I'm already in love — with Lady Liberty!" or something remotely noble like that. Now, I'd just apologize and give her a foot massage. I'm such a pussy.

What happened to me? From September of '85 to early May '92, I was on top of the world.

Women found my piercing gaze and tussled blond locks irresistible. Men found my penchant for danger and mechanical prowess devastatingly cool. And nefarious evil-doers found my street-smart intellect and inability to die horribly aggravating.

Those were the days, but now it's all about Linda.

Baby, I'm sure you look great in your new apron. I don't know why you need a second opinion.

She's so needy.

I want to call it quits but I can't. We've already bought a little one-story house in a nice neighborhood that put quite a dent in my bank account, and if I leave I'd owe thousands in child support. Plus, MacGyver ain't no deadbeat.

Yeah, meatloaf sounds great tonight, pumpkin.

Please help me.
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