God help you if you're anything like me, but in the off chance that you claim such an ignominious distinction, the only problem you had completing this assignment was selection of the topic from your seemingly-infite supply of guilty pleasures.

In all probability, you have a brother-in-law who knows more than you about everything, too. It's such a pleasure to hear that your wife has invited him over to watch the football game and receive the benefit of his on-going diatribe regarding the lousy athletes making up the team you root for, commiserating with him on how his team got screwed by the refs on that critical play that caused them to lose 48-0, and getting up every ten minutes to re-fill the snack bowl or get him another beer (which he never brings with him).  

How many times have you bit your lip rather than beat him senseless? How much have you spent in therapy bills for treatment of the facial tic that makes strangers wonder if you're afflicted by the onset of intermittent explosive disorder whenever you hear his name uttered?

Well, I have a solution. Next Sunday, I intend to invite him over for the Kansas City Chiefs game the local network will inevitably broadcast rather than a game that might feature two teams that actually matter, and present my wife with gift certificates for her and her sister to the finest day spa in the area, where they will spend the entire afternoon having their bodies lavished with all the crap that women get whenever they frequent those places, while I entertain Stan ... Stan the Man, The Man with the Plan, Super-Stan...

Of course, it will require setting up all the trappings in the basement. Hell, even if I have to buy a new big-screen, it'll be worth it. Yes, I'll put a recliner down there for him, make sure that several bags of chips are in place, a cooler full of Grain Belt (the pisswater he calls beer) and a bowl of onion dip that will require two people to carry it down the stairs.

Then, when I'm sure he's comfortable, I'll make some excuse that I have to go upstairs and begin to ascend the steps. When I get to the top (remote in hand), I will hit the button that energizes the CD player. Just as the teams are lining up for the opening kickoff, Stan will instantaneously be treated to the uncut, unedited, three-hour trilogy of The Vagina Monologues.   Of course, his shouts and thumps on the now-locked door at the top of the stairs will go unnoticed, since I will be in my car, enroute to the local watering hole to watch a real game.  

With any luck at all, three or four hours later my wife and sister-in-law will arrive home, feel sorry for him and unlock the door. I, of course, will be elsewhere, allowing an attentive bartender to install a nice buzz and a smile that you couldn't chisel off my face.   Sweet...