First impressions are important. Here’s the one I had about Vicki Johnson: The only thing more “blawwwwwgh” than her roomy breastuses are her forearms which resemble Popeye’s, but with loose flesh ‘steada spinach-activated muscles. Second impression: What in thee living tarnation are these people bringing all sorts of props to decide a $20K demand from a gal that looks like a bloated pinata? I mean, a pig skull from his pig-hunting excursions … now that’s some wild stuff there. I already agree with Mark that the chick who thinks she’s Russell Simmons’ tall-model ex-bride is freaking crazy. Cray Zee. I’d have seven guitars too if I was married to this broad. What better way to distract yourself erday of the week, n’shit?
“Your honor, I try to spend as much time away from her as I can,” declared Mark, putting it all into the proper context better than I could.
“I am the wife. I am the queen,” Popette said when Mark explained that he bought her a diamond watch, after Popette explained that she’s allergic to flowers, and doesn’t understand why grown women would like stuffed animals. “I’m not going to change for no man.”
“She’s turned into a beast,” Mark said. “We haven’t made love in over a year.”
“Because he doesn’t appreciate me.”
Well, I can’t blame him. I don’t think anybody would.
Then, she added that she’s allergic to perfume, too. Methinks the only thing she isn’t allergic to are McRibs. Not just one McRib sandwich, mind you. A whole spread of McRibs in various manifestations from McRib and Bananas Foster, McRib Mignon and Foie McRib Gras.
On the bright side, at least I have a picture to run next to the urban dictionary definition of “gutterslut.” It is so ordered.