Chris Johnson: My name is Chris Johnson, not Chris Brown

I was sitting at work pondering how I'd completely and utterly run out of column ideas just as I have for 935 consecutive weeks.

I figure each column idea is probably the last one I'll ever have -- and some of the haters out there (who read my column 34 percent more often than the people who like it) probably hope each column idea is the last one I'll ever have. But, hey, if you're a newspaper columnist who is not hated by a significant throng of hopefully not well-armed folks, then you ain't doing it right or you at last ain't having fun.

I was ready to give in at last when my phone began playing strands of The Beatles' "Something," which is the ringtone I use when my wife calls. (Everybody else gets the theme from "Sanford and Son.") Only it wasn't my wife.

It was a woman's voice, which was a relief because the last thing I needed was for it to be some hostage takers from the eastern Ukraine demanded some ridiculous sum I could never come up with like a million dollars or 14 bucks. A man's gotta have money to eat, you know.

The voice at the other end was her co-worker Niki, who explained that my wife was bleeding profusely from the head, which meant she either had ebola or had been hit in the head with a candlestick. Yep, she'd been hit in the head with a candlestick.

She wasn't just the victim of this assault -- she also was the assailant. Allegedly. It hasn't been proven. But she was crawling on the floor of the law office where she works, either trying to get a raise or trace a cord to find out why her computer wasn't working. The details are a little fuzzy. When she tried to move a bookcase, a sharp-edged candlestick leaped from the top of the case onto the back of her skull.

Because we have an American private health insurance policy, we generally don't go to the emergency room for a mere head injury unless such injury involves decapitation. But Niki seems to think that geysers of blood from the skull require the attention of medical professionals.

Fortunately, the doctors and nurses saw about her immediately. After asking where the injury was located, she clued them in that it was probably in the vicinity of the giant blob

of blood on her head. They fixed her up, gave her some tetanus and tequila shots and released her on her own recognizance. But not before they asked a few questions.

Actually, it was the same question. They kept asking how this really happened. After all, who gets head in the head with a candlestick outside of a game of Clue? What they really wanted to know was whether she was covering for an abusive husband.

While my wife might relish the thought of having a few days alone while I sit in jail, she knows not only have I never struck a woman in my life, but I consider such men to be among the lowest of the low, right down there with child abusers. I have no tolerance for it.

On one hand, I'm glad to know that the medical professionals are looking out for women who come into the ER with suspicious injuries. On the other hand, I hate that there's somebody out there who secretly suspects my wife is married to someone more like Chris Brown than Chris Johnson.

But I know the real story about how she was smacked in the head with a candlestick. At least I think I do. On second thought, maybe they shouldn't have rented out that spare office to Colonel Mustard.

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