The Nip
Brunette Vixen, you are lovely.
You have the playful tongue and high cheekbones of British aristocracy by way of mid 1980s Penthouse Forum letters to the editor. Your Annie Hall tie and Debbie Gibson earrings perfectly compliment your Sloane Peterson hair waves of amber grain.
I would read you Plato using energy saver lighting under tropical canopy, while massaging your toes with chicken fat.
And you brought an ambigiously Asian hottie sidekick to the party. How thoughtful. I will ravish her next after recovering my stamina by sipping Earl Gray tea and listening to Bad Brains’s seminal I Against I album on my itunes.
For bringing a second woman into our common law marriage, I would buy you useless baubles until you tired of me and cheated on me with your aerobics instructor, Mustafa.
And Shirtless Turd, your plaintive cry echoes in a Godless universe. Your exposed nipple neuters cats. Your smug smirk tasks me. I turn to Brunette Vixen for comfort. But it only somewhat soothes the cracked fissure of your taint. Because you suck.
