Madam Uranium

My husband is a high-ranking military man as courageous and heroic as General Jiggles. Even though I’ve warned him that his recent misbehavior is punishable by death, he insists on arranging classified trysts with his newest mistress. I don’t know what she’s got that I haven’t got. Let’s see if you can guess who she is. I’ll give some hints. Sure, she’s fissionable, but I’m fashionable. Sure she’s fun to ask out for radiometric dating; I’m fonder of traditional double dating. She may be radioactive, but I do aerobics. She may be pyrophoric, but I’m euphoric. She may be teratogenic, but I’m hygienic. She proves “might is right” while I’m a quiet creature of the night. She brags of making something of herself even though she grew up in the Manhattan Project. Big deal! I grew up in the Galfatten Trailer Park. I think my husband likes her because he says when she’s depleted, she can still be used as shielding to protect tanks; she can be used to make bullets, kinetic energy penetrators, and missiles. When I’m depleted, he says, I look like I’m good for nothing but hitting the pillow and falling fast asleep. So I’m not nearly half the woman as his new paramour. You guess who she is? Give up? Ms. Nunu Cleo Weepun. Ah! You know the extent of her power, do you? Okay, you’re right; I should let him go; let him have her. Divorce him. He isn’t even half the man as my former lover, that good old Adam Iqbalm. God rest his soul.