A Letter to Three Wives

which is apparently equaled
only by that of Addie Ross.

Let's try to keep Addie
out of this one.

I am fed up with taste
and discrimination.

- You're not making sense.
- I'm fed up with your nobility
and wisdom and superiority...

- and your contempt for me
in everything I try to do.
- You're talking nonsense.

- Everything I say is nonsense.
- It's all this work. You're overtired.
You do too much.

What do you suggest I stop doing,
this moronic radio trash...

- with which I pay most of your bills?
- Now calm down.

And what do I go back to,
washing, scrubbing, ironing...

and a life of taste
and discrimination?

I'm fed up with Addie Ross!
- What's it all about, really?
- "If music be the food of love... play on."

"Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
the appetite may sicken, and so die.

From Twelfth Night, by Mr. Shakespeare,
which Addie and I played in high school.

I thought it was a very clever note.
And there was more to it
than a childhood memory.

Yes, there was,
but we won't go into that.

We're going to get a few things
straightened out once and for all. Sit down.

- Yes, professor.
- Sit down!

Seven years ago I made the most perfect
marriage ever devised by man, heaven or radio.

My wife was an independent,
understanding woman.

We thought the same thing
about everything, from baseball to Brahms.

In those seven years, I was never
contemptuous of you. I was proud.

But when that drooling pap
began to change you...

when your independence
turned to fear...

when I watched you snivel and grovel around
those two walking commercials...

I didn't like it,
and I don't like it.

I don't want to be
married to Linda Gray...

Brenda Brown
or even Myrtle Tippet.

I want my own wife back.
Why didn't George go fishing?
Why the blue suit?