Published on: 08 Nov 08:10

Winter asks

I'm so hot people keep hitting on me everywhere I go -- my dentist, the cinema usher, random passers by, my boyfriend's father... But not my boyfriend

What do?

My answer

Oh for God's sake! The only thing I cannot stand more than a hussy is a shit hussy. Your boyfriend? Seriously? Did you think I'd never read you bitching about me? Bitching is your existence. That's all you do. You are quite genuinely the most abysmal paramour I've ever met.

I've TRIED. My god I've tried. I sent you flowers and chocolates: you chewed the flowers and drowned the chocolates. Your divorcee support group couldn't believe it. It's like you were deliberately trying to provoke them. I’ve met dray horses with superior romantic intuition. Superior oral skills too, hint hint.

For your birthday last week I hired a violin quartet to play you "Baby Got Back" outside our bedroom window: you accused them of being, and I quote, insidious emissaries of the Heterosexual Agenda, then attacked them with MY strapon! The Sunday-Best chrome strapon, too, with the diamond head carved into the shape of Freddie Mercury mooning the recipient! Cleaning Mercury's nooks and crannies after a thorough usage takes hours! You KNOW I’ll have to wear it at tonight's evening prayers! What WILL the Ayatollah say? You know how persnickety that old strumpet gets when she’s in a huff. You did this deliberately. Again.

And now this. If you ever stopped running your Nigerian scams and got off your phone and out of bed you’d see the meal I’d cooked for us. Deep-fried m&ms on a bed of braised ligers. Your favourite. I thought I’d give our relationship one last go. I’ve been slaving away in the kitchen for the last three hours, clanking pots and pans and slitting ligers' throats to see if you’d even pause recording those ridiculous audio clips you make, to fool and ensnare even more Californian super-Karens, or whatever you’re calling your marks these days, and even just glance up at me.

You don’t even sound Nigerian! We have a beautiful, rolling, rich, dark accent, like liquid Jesus-chocolate. Your attempt at our accent sounds like Michael Jackson and Mike Tyson gargling each others’ prostates. The entire neighbourhood can hear it, even over the screams of expiring ligers. But no. You’re just lying there, in OUR water bed, abusing the goodwill of this support group web page right here, and these fine people, claiming that I don’t flirt with you.

BullSHIT. I’ve been flirting with you for months and your hussy prowess is so crap you can’t even notice. I’m giving you a reacharound right this second. I'm typing this one-handed. I bet you think it’s just the Help or something, though if my boss always whipped me the instant I ceased handhobbing him, shit, I'd pounce on his penis 24/7 too.

But I've had enough. If you stopped your faux-Nigerian crooning for two goddamn seconds you’d see the two-foot steel strapon I’m about to brain you with. Not the Freddie Mercury strapon. I'd never disrespect him like that. The Stalin strapon. He's always up for delivering a sound pounding. Just ask Trotsky. In a minute you'll be able to able to ask him in person.

(I feel I should point out that Winter and I are real-life friends, and he sent me a link to this question and told me to go nuts.)

Source: https://www.facebook.com/groups/393804108644865/po...