“Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” – Confucius
In the wake of the Rutgers coach firing, perhaps I should tone down my relationship coaching methods and rhetoric. Lord knows I wouldn’t want any celebrities or famous athletes to attract attention by feigning disgust with my overuse of dirty words and dildo slaps. When I employ name-calling, it’s out of love, not hate. Still, certain newscasters claim to be vicariously damaged when I call a cheating husband a fuzzy puddle of ball sweat.
Sure, my fiery style of coaching has come into question over the years, but my record speaks for itself, assholes … sorry, I mean dummy heads. Look how many marriages I’ve created and saved with my proprietary methods. What’s that? None, you say? Look, Paris wasn’t built in a day. Shut up. Sure, I’ve snapped a few hineys with a wet towel, but I haven’t killed anyone.
Some nosy fucker taped one of my sessions and posted it for the world to see. You need to understand that the video taken out of context may be offensive to some thin-skinned pussy farts. If you haven’t seen it (thank you for having a fucking life), it allegedly shows:
- Me squirting Astroglide on a man’s head, telling him it should “make it easier to keep your head up your ass.”
- Me calling a smarmy hipster a “fucking tooth fairy with a tiny wand” and a “fucking British cigarette.”
- Me lining a sports bra with Bengay to teach a certain hosebag to stop destroying bar stools with her sparkle jeans.
- Me ear-flicking a man who was taking a self-portrait in the restroom with his iPhone.
- Me throwing eggs at some douche wearing skinny jeans and loafers without socks.
- Me chasing women around the locker room with a Super Soaker filled with chilled prosecco.
The video also captures me chastising a gentleman for lying on his Match.com profile.
“Why you hairless corpulent ugolicious rectum-sniffing mole with a micropenis. How could you post pictures from a cruise you took with your parents a decade ago? Do you look like this now, maggot? Please show me the fucking ruler that claims you’re six feet tall. In pumps, standing on your toes, with your comb-over gelled toward the heavens, you’re five fucking six, at best. You say you make six figures. Hey, flea brain, you’re only supposed to count the figures to the left of the decimal point. You disgust me, you turd-like pork-bellied puke-inducing sperm-receptical. Now drop and give me twenty before I pinch your nipple with a rusty clamp.”
Harsh? Perhaps. But, it got the job done. He changed his profile the next morning. Well, sure, he hasn’t met anyone since. Still, I’ve set him up for success and saved countless women from placing blind-date distress calls. Fine, I’ll try it your way, moral America.
“Oh, silly man. You’re just a bundle of cuteness, but you know those pictures are not good representations of the current version of you. I think you made a wittle oopsie when you typed your height, shnookums. And, I admire that you’ve taken steps to improve your financial situation by living in your parents’ garage, but you’re not really earning six-figures by being a basketball player sweat mopper, are you? I need you to apologize to all the women you’ve dated in the past year and, as punishment, I’m going to need you to stand over there facing the corner, thinking about what you did.”
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