aldo-vallon - March 27, 2018
I am man enough to admit that there are not enough digits in my bank account to keep Nancy Cameron satisfied, let alone happy. There is so much lace, frills, and feathers and that it would take the finances of Louis XIV to bankroll those tastes. I am realistic enough to cut my losses and go after the washed up biker hag who bartends at my local dive bar. But any of you who are ambitious enough should go right ahead. They don’t call boobs funbags for nothing, and considering the size of the pair on Nancy I would say she is the Disneyworld of women.
I do not know when feather boas came into style, but I would like to punch the person in the face who is responsible for them. There is nothing that can make me go softer faster than seeing a woman drape a limp allergy rag over her shoulders. It is like a physical metaphor for erectile dysfunction. Not that it hits too close to home right now, but in the future it might. That is the same reason that I do not make fun of bald men, and idolize Hunter S. Thompson. One day I too will probably have a chrome dome.