That's right, angel cakes. Just you and me and some late-period Journey. "Don't stop believin'..."
Oh, I'd be good for you, prissie missie. I got some fat, bald, hairy flappy-assed love for you, li'l saddlepal. That's right, saddlelpal. Check it-
I'm hovering over you in the candlelight, my fat gross paunch nestled against your stomach. I've got that white gunk at the corners of my mouth and my glasses are on cockeyed. I'm all red with exertion and I keep saying, "yeah, babe-uh, yeah, babe-uh..." just like that. Not "baby": "Bay-buh."
I feel like a stale Twizzler inside you, ain't it good, bay-buh? You like that white lic'rish, don't ya, punkin? You like what Little Carl is teaching you. Don't act like you don't. I know you're my little girl, punkin. I know that fwumping 230 pounds against you sort of overshadows any motion in th' ocean if you know what ah'm sayin', but I can tell you love, love, love it. Been a while since you had a REAL man, ain'tent it?
My tits are bigger than yours and a lot sweatier. Don't the piercings make 'em sexy? Tug 'em with your teeth. Oh, yeah, you hussy. Yeah, that's it bay-buh. Kiss me. Kiss me Kate. Have some of that white mouth-corner gunk. Uncle Karl's gonna tell you aaaall his secrets tonite, sugar cookie. Fwap fwap fwap. It's all you, bay-buh. It's aaall about you tonight.
Boy, I bet you feel a lot more well disposed towards your husband right now.
A Public Service from Bobby Lightfoot registered trademark.