Don’t pat me on the fucking back when you “hug” me. Don’t put one arm limply around my back and consider that a “hug”. Yeah, I know. You think I’m some kind of predatory middle-aged fuck-up who isn’t aware that you have a strict policy on married fatties. Yeah, don’t worry, though. I have no designs on scrapping with your pudendum in the Whole Foods bathroom. I’m just here to be your friend. I’m just trying to assist your transition from semi-hot pseudo-intellectual college student to blank-eyed housewife, mother of kids you cannot stand, living in opulent splendor in some thrown-up suburban-esque McMansion. The dream.
Don’t worry. Part of my service is providing you with the only interesting conversation you’re gonna have all week, and why? Because I don’t fucking care anymore. The only thing you have to do is sit there and enjoy my act for a while, and offer up some (lately) milquetoast theories on why there aren’t more blacks here. I’m laughing on the inside. Imagine, if you can, a man who is not attracted to you just because you have slot b.
I love this band.