You’ve Got Some Nice Tits

But what else you got? You’re telling me those are DSLs? Please, stop exaggerating. I hear that way too much. Trust me those are not a viable, long-term asset. Your ass? A momentary, disdainful thought. Let me slap it. Oh, daddy like. Okay, it has got some resistance. And on second thought, it has the right amount of after jiggle – in between Homer’s belly ripple and a wall’s reaction. I’ll overlook the faint tread of cottage cheese, although, I will recommend immediate attention to your lower gluet area; in three to five years time, the cheese will spread in all directions and form large pools on your ass cheeks. But, I don’t intend to be with you when that occurs; it’s just some fair warning.

I kid, I kid. I do want to be with you. Your beauty is only skin deep, they tell me. See, this is a new phenomena to me. Since I was… well, since I first thought of a woman, probably in the movies near age 8-ish, I looked at the outward appearance: the pert rack, pearl onion butt and that perfect face. A quick response to what you may think of what I just said: yeah, while the movies perpetuate that intended, imprinted image in me (all males too), the movies do the same to you true love seeking women. Notebook? Any Hugh Grant film? C’mon you believe in that carp all the time (and I do mean carp).

I mean besides the tits, can you be able to carry on a conversation with me? I don’t watch ESPN that much! Trust me. I read… magazines and porn site biographies. Your fav activity? Shopping. Cool, only if it’s without me. Buy you gifts and remember anniversaries and important dates? I can’t. It upholds that you deserve to objectified. Plus you can cry to your girlfriends that I don’t care for you; it gives a reason to bitch. You’re not a doll, princess. You are a human being. Stop putting on all that make-up – I know you may look better with it but, but… But it’s not real.

Neither are our feelings for each other. I mean you’d hold out forlorn hope that by giving into my sex demands, that eventually I’ll love you. That may happen, after 15 years and when I’ve been reduced to the deep panting in dressing in a size 46 pair of pants and tooling around in our Honda Odyssey. I’d shower “I love you”s into your ear in order to attempt my sexual fantasies that’ll not be successful.

Evidently, we do need each other. How’s three kids sound. Annual trips to Disney World. A possible opt out clause, better known as a divorce by 38. Yes. Then, it’s a deal. We just signed, too. You’re pregnant.