When relationships fail, many individuals find they’re lumped with the stereotypical “crazy ex”.
This individual may stalk you, set fire to your underwear, linger about awkwardly, or generally be a bloody annoyance. So, how do you handle that?
Crazy Exes All Got Riders
I’ll get right to the point. I’ve been married to my husband (my former boyfriend) for six months. I like him, I guess. His job as a black market arms dealer opens up many luxurious doorways. Anyway, that’s not the point. I’ve got half a dozen crazy exes giving us shit. They won’t leave me alone, I'm just that desirable I guess! And it’s driving me nuts!! The craziest is Derek, who turned up on our drive at 3am, drunk, and began bellowing a moving rendition of Celine Dion’s “I Will Always Love You”. He then did a dump on the driveway and began throwing it at the bedroom window. My husband, out of a sense of duty, rushed down to “batter” Derek. But he just ended up covered in excrement. The five other crazy exes are: Jeff, John, Brian, Craig, Mark, and Felix. These are some of the things they’ve done: - Jeff: Deliberately got a job at the business I work at and hangs around me at all times, often heading over to my department to ask me for Blu Tack. He now has the world record for "man with the most Blu Tack in the world". He also keeps slipping me written notes such as, "I still love you, bitch cow from Hell!!" - John: Took up yodelling to impress me and now has a YouTube channel dedicated to him yodelling classic love songs in my honour. - Brian: To prove his love for me, hacked his right leg from his body. He said I should use it as a "walking stick". However, it's gone all green and weird looking and isn't suitable for such an activity. - Craig: Changed his name to my name (Camilla) and also applied for a sex change operation to, "Become the second you!" He duly did this, but a restraining order now means I don't have to see what he's done to himself (and, no, this isn't Camilla #2 messaging you, I'm the real me—I mailed you blood and stool samples as proof). - Mark: Covered himself in cow dung as "camoflauge" and broke into my back garden. He lay there for the a month surviving off Jaffa Cakes. When they ran out he survived off mud and slugs slithering by him. My husband eventually went out to mow the lawn and ploughed right over Mark's arm while he was asleep, inducing minor lacerations (he only needed an amputation). - Felix: Cornered my husband in a bar on a lad's night out and, as an undercover crazy ex, duped his way into his inner circle of mates. Over the next three months he gradually eroded my husband's self-esteem through passive-agressive remarks—this led my husband to have a nervous breakdown believing he's not good enough for me and, indeed, Felix is man for my life. I eventually rumbled Felix's game when he came round for the Christmas party. I kicked him in the testicles as soon as I recognised him. What can I do to control them? Should I have them all "bumped" off? My husband has ready access to many bazookas. Yours, Camilla
Hi, Camilla. Thanks in advance for the blood and stool samples. We verified those and you’re, indeed, you.
Erm… do you want us to mail them back to you? We’ll leave the stuff in our fridge until you’ve sent us confirmation.
Anyway, you’ve got a wild bunch there, haven’t you? The best way to deal with crazy exes is to ensure you’re crazier then they are. Here’s how to achieve that.
The quickest way to achieve madness is to feign it, as years of manic drug addiction will only delay you getting one over your crazy exes.
There’s no rote path to appear insane, but you can do the following:
- Buy an axe. Carry it with you at all times.
- Buy a chainsaw. Carry it with you at all times—along with the axe.
- Cackle insanely as regularly as possible.
- Stop bathing—stench typically infers lunacy of some sort.
- Carry around a severed head with you—this can be a prop or otherwise.
And that’s it! Once any of your crazy exes see you’re totally bonkers, they’ll clear off in terror. Probably.
Either that or you can date them all in a giant six-way dating extravaganza. Whatever, we’re not even going there. Best of luck!