Dear Blessed Nymphets,
You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you. Like any good father, I’d like nothing more than to see My boys move out of My basement and get married. So when I heard that brand-loyalist girls get freaky-deaky ten minutes after puberty hits, I knew I could finally unload one of My boys. You see, My eldest, Republican Jesus, is a free-market capitalist. If there’s one thing He believes in as much as deregulation, it’s test driving.
Even when the boys were just little tykes, Republican Jesus would try out the Chanukah toys before He decided which one He wanted. It’s always been the same with women, too. While Hippie Jesus was busy “courting” His little girlfriends and invariably getting His heart broken time and again, RJ was test driving. Many is the time I heard Him tell Hippie Jesus, “You never have to worry about getting Your Clash records and Your favorite t-shirt back from a $200 hooker.”
It was evident from the start that there were some girls who just weren’t right for RJ. He needed someone freaky, sure, but they also had to know who was boss. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find someone like that. Like RJ says, “Some chicks just won’t do what they’re told.” Also, as you know, He hates a contraceptive. Wow! Does He hate ’em.
Frightened by a diaphragm as a child. I blame Myself, really. He picked up His mother’s from the nightstand one day and I kind of lost it. I yelled at Him to put it down; told Him it was filthy and would give Him the pox. (Knowing My whore of an ex-wife, Mary, it might have.) Ever since He learned in health class that it was a contraceptive, He’s been deathly afraid of every kind ever made. Sponges especially, for some reason.
So you can see why you’re such a Me-send. I want to get Him out of the house as soon as possible, so I’m going to give Him a list of your addresses and school schedules. He’ll probably go through a fair number of you before He decides on The One; and He may need to test drive some of you more than once, but don’t worry. It’s all part of Gawd’s Plan… to finally turn My basement into a rec room.
Now, if only I can find a Birkenstock-wearing earth-muffin who doesn’t mind a guy who soils Himself every time He sees a couple of nails.
Wish You Were Here,