Monster

Schoolgirl and the Try-Hard

We don’t just dance the future fat wives club. It’s a fucking mechanical bull bitch... jello wrestling at Gilley’s every Wednesday night. We don’t buy it. We consume it and do everything in our power to make sure you know it’s the way. In fact it’s so important and so relevant we’re even going to have to interrupt you during grocery shopping (unfortunately) and pretty much every other last square millimeter of everywhere in true social roach manner concerning such issues. Hey if it’s OK to point at animals at the zoo like that, we don’t want to hear any shit.

Don’t worry sweetie. It’s nothing a Loratab and some Botox won’t fix.

Let’s examine (some of) the facets of what’s wrong with you and what you’re missing out on as a result.

See:

We are holy and right in the freedom to be the way that we be, but don’t you let yourself be confused with our need and that same freedom we possess (we remind you) to prick and prod your way. Let it be clear: If you speak out once with any remarkable articulation we will make you the big mouth even though we promote our way all day every day with everything we do. We do it because we’re better, smarter.

We like our unremarkable ugly-on-Saturday-morning spouses. You need to go tell that sexy tramp you call a “lady” that she had better go learn the ways of the terry-cloth jumpsuit or else we’re going to have a problem. She’s a whore anyway, and it’s not that we don’t trust our husbands. They like meat on their bones. You see, that slut you call a fantasy fuck is really just a mindless gold-digger and without an annoying white bitch laugh and that Martha Stewart, mom jeans, camel-toe grace...

We just don’t see her having much of a future in our corporate structure.

Does she like to knit?

Look:

Our Uncle Dick told us a story once about a flat-drive-in-movie-assed, screaming-at-her-kid, curled-bangs vision of an angel named Tammy. Now, Tammy felt a oneness with the Ricki Lake show. You know what that means? It means she had the divine luxury of knowing a gift from God... a hairy, dutch-oven-inflicting, butterball hunk of burning motherfucking love in flip-flops... her husband.

Tammy knew lots of things.

Tammy knew that you were missing out because you don’t have her beautiful children. Ever heard of Cabbage Patch Kids? They modeled those after Tammy’s kid. Yes. Remember those fat little fast-food-stinking bundles of joy sitting next to you in public who knew every fucking word to Billy Joel songs? Those are her kids. Yes. Ever seen those little bastards running around the mall with the lady scratching the already salted wound chalkboard low-carb “NO” wailing “he’s not my hunk from TV but I love my husband”? That’s Tammy and her family. Ever seen that porno where at first you think it’s a wild boar trying to hide in a big cave and it’s raining and there’s a little girl trapped inside somewhere screaming “no no no” and the boar floats out of the picture and the Jackson 5 appear live at the Grand Canyon, but it’s really just a guy having sex with his wife? Remember? All the fraternities at State were showing it at parties? That’s Tammy and her husband. That’s Tammy’s sex life.

She’s a monster in bed. Their old nanny stole it and posted it on the internet. You believe that shit?

Anyway:

What’s our point? Our point is how we could be so lucky to have these things, how we could be so lucky to call this lovely lady our beautiful wife and procreate like rabbits with her. OK. OK. We’ll stop there. You get the picture.

Side note:

Uncle Dick only had a male roommate all those years because he was a tightwad, not because he was gay, so you can 87 that one right now.

We as Tammy know lots of things as well.

We know you’ll never know the wonders of confusing monogamy with no-one-else-of-sound-mind-not-tied-to-shackles-wants-to-fuck-me. We know you’ll never know the wonders of achieving the perfect from-the-pits-of-fucking-hell-fake-blank-as-I-light-myself-on-fire smile in our family portraits. We know you’ll never know the wonders of dragging your children through the YWCA women’s bathroom and terrorizing their fragile young minds with the immaculate follicle treachery that awaits. We know you’ll never know the wonders of being that asshole couple wearing the adult Garanimal matching outfits. We know you’ll never know the wonders of realizing your life is over... I’m married to a nobody who bores me... I had kids so suicide is out... I’m stuck in a cubicle... my friends won’t ever be honest about my weight because they super-size everything with me... I tried the make-over thing but I still look like a football player wearing a wig in heels... why doesn’t my husband carry my Glamour Shots photo in his wallet... I’ll bet he goes to Hooter’s for the hot wings... I just once want him to get off without those “videos” involved... snoring... golf-talking... ball-scratching... joys of this little ditty we like to call a New York state of mind.

We know you’ll never know the wonders of any of it... in these simple terms, that is.

Shit, you probably don’t even have anyone over thirty in your household with an XBox.

You probably don’t have the IMAK MONY license plate either and we just don’t have the time.

What are we going to do with you? You’re a mess.

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