By Tim Sanders

I like to think I know a little bit about human beings, having been one for most of my life.

One of the things I know about human beings is that we absolutely love conspiracy theories. When Oliver Stone, for example, gobbles a few too many hallucinogenic mushrooms and offers one of his many conspiracy movies, we flock to the theaters. And when Hillary Clinton mentions that sinister "vast right-wing conspiracy," the more timid among us lose bladder control. We voraciously consume Dan Brown’s "The Da Vinci Code," which reveals the Catholic Church’s conspiracy to conceal the fact that Christ was actually married to a thirteenth disciple, Lurleen, and had offspring cavorting all over Western Europe. That book gives us all the conspiracies we can stand, and incorporates Knights Templar, Knights of Columbus, Third-Degree Masons, Dungeon Masters, hobbits, anagrams, and levitating Scrabble boards. These conspiracy theories brighten our lives. We knew all along that something was up, somewhere; we just didn’t know exactly where, or what it was. We’re not fools.

Well, I have my own conspiracy theory. The conspiracy I speak of is not as showy as the others, or as romantic, but it affects me, and I find believing in it very reassuring. It involves all of the major television networks, the French, and a nefarious, multi-national healthcare industry. Oh yeah, and also my wife. If you are a married man in his late 50s, this may be just the conspiracy theory you’ve been looking for.

Perhaps you’ve experienced the following, or something quite like it: You and your wife are watching a really interesting TV movie. It is a rich, deeply textured science fiction murder mystery set in the Old West, featuring several very scantily clad saloon girls, one of whom just might be an actual space zombie. In a scene which is crucial to the movie’s subtle plot, Marshal Biff Highpockets moseys into the saloon. He sidles up to the bar just as Miss Zora sashays over to order a drink. There is more obligatory moseying, sidling, and sashaying, and finally Miss Zora, who looks to be plumb tuckered out, says: "Biff, I have something to tell you which is crucial to the plot of this movie." Then there is a dramatic pause, as the music swells to a deafening crescendo.

At this juncture your wife snatches the remote from your hand and turns the volume down. All you can hear Miss Zora telling Marshal Highpockets is, "Mumble, mumble, mumble."

"What did she say?" you ask.

"I can’t watch TV if I’ve got to repeat the dialogue to you all the time. You’ve gotta get a hearing aid!" During your wife’s reply, Biff Highpockets says something equally crucial, which sounds like "mumble, mumble, mumble" again. Then there is a loud explosion, and all that remains of Biff are a pair of smoking boots. You’ve missed the whole point of this fine piece of cinematic art.

So if you’re going deaf, as your wife contends, why is it that you have no trouble hearing all of that dramatic, crescendo-swelling music, and why is it that it’s only the dialogue you can’t hear? Do the television networks have a switch somewhere which allows them to blast you out of your easy chair with their commercials and music, while muting all of the important stuff?

And speaking of your wife, just why is it that after age fifty, women all resort to mumbling? It’s not just me, other husbands have told me the very same thing. "I can’t understand a word she says anymore," they say. "She mumbles all the time!"

"You need to hang your petticoat up," my wife told me the other day. This strange remark surprised me, since I didn’t know there was a petticoat anywhere in the house, and was relatively sure if there was, it wasn’t mine.

"What petticoat are you talking about?" It seemed like a reasonable question.

"I swear, you’re getting worse and worse," she said. "I said HEAVY COAT!"

And sometimes they’ll do more than just mumble; they’ll intentionally say things which make no sense at all, just to throw you off. The other night as we lay in bed, Marilyn tapped me on the shoulder and said, very clearly and distinctly: "Could you calm that nervous cat down?" I thought it was an odd request at that time of night, especially since our cat was outside, and not making a bit of noise. At least none that I could hear.

"What is she doing, dear?" I asked.

"What is who doing?"

"The cat."

"What cat?"

"The nervous cat you wanted me to calm down."

"Oh for Pete’s sake, I asked you to TURN THE THERMOSTAT DOWN!"

See what I mean? The television networks and our wives are conspiring with those weasels at Miracle Ear to sell us a couple of little two dollar hunks of plastic with four dollars’ worth of wires and batteries in ‘em for three thousand bucks.

But even if all of that’s true, you say, what in the world do the French have to do with your conspiracy theory? I’m glad you asked.

If Oliver Stone can have his CIA, and Hillary can have her conservatives, and Dan Brown can have his Catholics, I think I should be entitled to rail against the French. They do have those mimes, after all, and God knows they’re up to no good. They’ve exported them over here, and I’m sure I’ve seen them, undercover of course, waving at me across parking lots, moving their mouths and not saying a single stinking word. What are they up to? Is it just coincidence that there are no Irish mimes? Think about it. As far as I’m concerned the French, the TV networks, the powerful hearing aid lobby, and my wife are all complicit in spinning this web of deceit.

I could go on, but my wife is calling from the kitchen. Some nonsense about whether I left the flash scan out indiscreet again. I think it’s another one of her trick questions.