Face it, the presidential debates are awful. They’re not changing anyone’s mind anyway. What would be interesting is an actual debate between north brains and south brains with a sex kitten moderator.
KITTEN: Here are the ground rules: No lying, swearing, interrupting, or asking me to pick something off the floor so you can see my nipples. We flipped a coin backstage and Mr. Willy D. Penis, you won, so you’ll go first. My first question has to do with Libya … I mean, labia. We all remember the assault you had on us recently and would like to know how you’d improve your next approach.
WILLY: Thank you, Kitten. And, may I begin by saying how lovely you look today? Now, about your labia: my friend over here was entirely responsible for the assault. I mean, shit, I have no hands. You can’t blame me for getting drunk. This knucklehead here was the one who suggested, “Oh, what’s one more bottle? It’s not very strong wine.”
MAN: First, you’re a dick.
KITTEN: Hey, no name calling either.
MAN: I apologize. You’re a choad. My wallet and I were both perfectly content to stop at one bottle. In fact, Mr. Liver suggested a tall glass of ice water. But, no. You had to insist we get a little deeper in the grape.
MAN: Stop interrupting me. Then, Kitten, he has the nerve to make you wait while I pee–fucking dotted-line pee, nonetheless–while you sit on the edge of my bed reconsidering.
WILLY: Oh, sure, Mr. Thimble Bladder, blame me.
MAN: Plus, when I suggested we enjoy a little conversation and perhaps some Jason Mraz, he voted against it! What a dick!
KITTEN: Stop with the name calling and interrupting, you two.
MAN: Sorry. Well, I’m sure you remember, Kitten, that after I dabbed the pee dribble from him (he drools, how gross), we returned to bed and the little fucker had the nerve to go semi-limp on me. I mean, it was like stuffing warm, bleu cheese into an olive.
WILLY: Don’t blame me for your ineptitudes, you syrup-blooded relic.
WILLY: It’s my turn.
KITTEN: Fine, you have two minutes.
MAN: Well, that’s one more than he typically needs.
WILLY: I’m efficient; so sue me. Anywho, I was half asleep because he bored me with all of the silly foreplay talk. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard the same goddamned spiel? “Er … eh … I’m a one-woman man. I don’t usually do this. You’re special. We have a connection.” What a bunch of barf-a-loney.
KITTEN: True, a little finger-lovin’ wouldn’t have hurt.
MAN: But, …
WILLY: I’m not done. And, did I get hard? Yes. Did I climb on into the love tunnel? Yes. Work until I puked? Yes. Shrivel and sleep without being intrusive? Yes. All I asked for was a nice warm towel. Did I get one? No. Homeslice here simply yanked up his boxers (backwards, I might add), rolled over, and played dead.
KITTEN: That is, actually, what I recall.
MAN: Can I speak now?
KITTEN: Yes, you get a one-minute rebuttal.
WILLY: She said butt.
MAN: Do you see what I’m dealing with here? He waivers between rodeo clown hopped up on Dew and a narcoleptic lump of flesh taffy. Where’s the bi-partisanship? How are we ever going to conquer labia, if he keeps working against me? Then, after a night of noodle-play, the little prick decides to wake me with petrification. How embarrassing!
KITTEN: I was fine with it. Morning nookie is fun.
MAN: Fun for him. He didn’t have to smell morning mouth–a foul combination of garlic hummus, carne asada tacos, and stale vino.
WILLY: See how inconsiderate he is? What’s a fucking toothbrush cost, a dollar? You think El Cheapo over here could sell a few more books and avoid wasting the proceeds at the track.
KITTEN: You two settle down. And now, a word from our sponsor: ChristianMingle.com.