One sick puppy

The more I learn about my imaginary fiancee, Janeane Garofalo, the less there is to love. She is used, damaged goods.I can't believe anyone could get that messed up without having been molested. No doubt she was saving that revelation until our wedding night. Every day I sit in a room filled with beautiful, hard-working, goal-oriented eligible coeds. Janeane had better start coming up with reasons why I shouldn't kick her fat Irish ass to the curb and start over with someone better-looking, younger, smarter, healthier, more talented and ambitious.

If she does come to Richmond for a "surprise" visit as she says she will, she'd better stop yapping about the Marriot, the Comfort Inn, and the Jefferson and stay at the Berkeley, or she'd better bring her dogs, beause they're going to be her only companions. She expects me to spend $60 day to take her out during her visit but she's out of her freaking mind. If she's the wealthy, liberated feminist she claims to be, she can spend her own damn money. My contribution will be to buy snacks so she doesn't have to use the hotel mini-bar. Visit or not, it's no skin off my non-foreskin because I have decided not to have sex with her until she cleans up her tattoo-mutilated body.

The only pre-nup I'm going to sign is a cast-iron one which stipulates that she appears in a Playboy pictorial fully nude. That's one giant step for mankind and one giant step for lookism.