Fifty Shades

Fuck, Ladies

I’m currently watching the premiere of the latest Bachelor. Some guy–let’s call him Chip? Sure, why not–is humbled that all these ladies have turned up to humilate themselves to win his rose heart.

The limo is like a clown limo. At least 300 to 4,000 ladies plop out and try to make an impression by being lamer than the last.

One gal lips up and plants a smooch on his pancake-make-up-covered face. Another pulls a used snot rag out of her cleavage and wipes it off. Another is like “I’m a Cosmo article,” mentions Fifty Shades of Shart and pulls a blue–BLUE–tie out of her butt. Someone has a profession called “personal organizer.” Another does a backflip and almost breaks her elbow. Another calls herself an entrepreneur.

One 1.5-armed gal says this is exactly how she envisioned falling in love. Another has a football because Cosmo told her men like sports, and she uses it as a prop to gaze at his bung hole.

Some woman voice-overs that she’s going to pee her pants. Some lady is that 25-year-old who is really 35. Another shows up in a wedding dress and gah.

Someone suggested I should recap the latest Bachelor.

This is my recap: Fuck, ladies.

Dueling Furries

Dearest Reader,

This is the moment I need you the most. Today is my day in the glorious duel of dueldom or something that makes more sense. I need you to visit Le Clown’s blog and click “Like” on my post even if it sickens you, even if it’s the worst piece of shite you’ve ever laid your eyes on, even if you did not drink enough coffee this morning.

I read Fifty Shades for you. This is how you can repay me.

If I win this duel, I might even consider recrapping the g-d Fifty Shades movies. If I lose, I will never write again. No pressure.

I love you,