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In four days, the two shall become one, or something like that. So here we are, posting as one.

Aunt Becky has been running herself ragged getting everything done for this wedding, because I don’t do anything for silly things like weddings. I prefer to focus my energies on my online girlfriends and computer-related foibles. I do this because you can’t hear online girlfriends queef.

It’s interesting that Powdered Gay Man or whomever DAVE would like to be would say something about weddings. See, hear me out, I didn’t want a wedding. No, no, in every OTHER man’s romantic life, I would be the most simple, kindest of women, because MY idea of romance is a short flight to Vegas away. I’ve not even BEGUN to understand why on earth ANYONE would want to spring such money for one single day. And honey, we will NEVER be “one.”

Hey, I offered a Vegas trip. I wanted to be married by Elvis. Of course, the ceremony would have to happen in true Road Trip fashion, the only TRUE way a Vegas wedding should be: Skydiving. That’s right. You, me, and the King with parachutes flapping open in the breeze, saying our vows in just enough time before having to pull that cord and land back on earth, joined in wedded bliss. But as much as my love SAYS she wants a Vegas wedding, this small little request was returned to sender. Denied. Kaboshed. And honey, we’re ALREADY one. We just don’t have the rings on yet.

I did quite appreciate the Vegas offering, I did. Let me set this record straight once and for all, though. You ONLY offered this trip AFTER I said that I would go skydiving, and I quote myself here,”when it becomes socially acceptable to shit my own pants.” YOU didn’t think that having my pants filled with dookie would be “romantic” or “sensual.”

You forget, my love, that I offered to clean those soiled drawers for you myself. With my own tongue. And on top of that, this is what Depends are for. You’ll never remember the dookie in the drawers, what you’ll remember is the love in the air. Besides, no one will smell it at 20,000 feet or so, in free-fall, you’re ALWAYS upwind.

See, honey-muffin, here’s where you’re lying to yourself, and to me AND TO THE INTERNET. Now I know FOR A FACT, that had you ACTUALLY offered to “eat my shit,” literally this time, I would have been more than happy to oblige you. I’ve been waiting to see something like that happen for AGES. No, this whole elaborate wedding is your fault, as are natural disasters, the fact that my closet doesn’t have enough purses, AND soaring gas prices. P.S. There is no one. The computers must count for SOMETHING.

It’s no lie. I mean, I may have been a bit, y’know, *figurative* about the actual “eating” part, but no, I’d have cleaned you up nice afterward. Instead, now, we’ve got all these people coming into town, an oncoming bar tab the size of China, cute-ass little place cards, and even some minor family drama. P.S. I’m sorry about the gas prices, but baby, your closet has so many purses that we don’t need to buy luggage for our honeymoon. We can just fill up the purses and carry ‘em on.

God Bless America, and God Bless YOU, Dave. You have SO MUCH to learn about purses. I’ll teach you ALL about it after the honeymoon.

Oh baby, I can hardly wait. Maybe someday SOME day, I’ll have a purse of my very own in my closet. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

The purse in your closet, honey, is actually called “spillover.”

We need a bigger house.

We need wealthy benefactors.

Now THERE is a brilliant idea. This is why I love you. Benefactors? You out there? Show us some love. W’re buying 160 people dinner on Saturday.
Give us the hookup!

You’re shameless.*I* was going to have a”love child” with an old, old, rich oil tycoon.

And you scrapped that brilliant plan just to marry me?

There are still four days left for me to change my mind.

There you have it, kind readers. True love.

Happy Fourth Birthday, Benner. Without you, I would be nothing. Someday, maybe I will explain why today was such a pivotal, important, terrible awful day. But for now, let me just say that I love you more than anything and I’m sorry and I hope that the McDonald’s and the ice cream cake that I had The Daver run out to get make it special.

Happy Number Four, baby boy. I’m so proud to be your mom. You make me so, so proud.


For as long as I can remember, I have made jokes about being t-bagged because it’s just such a ridiculous thing. My male friends in high school–The Metal Heads–were always going back and forth with me, joking that they were going to put their balls on my face. It wasn’t a serious thing and I don’t think anyone actually wanted to do it.

Well, maybe they did, but probably just to get me to shutthefuckup. I mean, wouldn’t you?

But no one took me up on that. Well, until the smokin’-hott stripper for my bachelorette party showed up.

Now he was a surprise to me, one that I had a mere 2 hours to psych myself up for. I had expected a stripper that is hired totally last minute would be nasty; a filthy 50 year old man with chest and back hair, and a belly like Danny Devito. Or someone akin to Cletus the slack-jawed yokel, red mullet and dangly ball bag. I dunno.

But dude. NO. He was actually hot.

Without rocking any sort of buzz, I was reduced to a gooey giggly mess of bride-to-be, for all of my friends to see. Because what else can you do when a naked hot dude starts rubbing his junk all up on you but laugh your ass off?

And then, in the midst of the humping, and the mock muff-diving, he climbed up on me and put his balls on my face. Rubbed his balls on my face. For what seemed like hours. I was suffocating in the fumes and enormity of it all.

His balls, my face, all in front of my friends. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry so I think I did both. I wept into his ball bag until he finally pulled his sac off of me and I could breathe again. Never has air tasted so good.

Next time I get married, I am SO eloping.

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