One of the following sentences is wholesome:
A) “We aren’t planning to have any more children right now, if that’s what God has planned for us.”
B) “The marriage act is the chaste expression of sexuality, and we’re receptive to new life.”
C) “We prayed about it and decided to do it just once that night [our wedding night,] and [lengthy description of resulting ectopic pregnancy and ovarectomy].”
D) “Giggity fuckin’ goo gah I just schtupped a fat whore in Tacoma.”
To help us choose an answer, let’s return for a moment to Kirk Siegler’s cultural learning of Pueblo for make benefit glorious nation of Bougiekistan. Wisdom, let us attend: It’s all about values and who you know and how you treat people, although all of these put together may not be worth a pot of shit in Spanaway. The values of a fat whore in Tacoma, one assumes, include whorishness, among other things buried in Grant’s tomb, but probably not road trips to the Washington Beltway (yeah, yeah, the other Washington) to snipe at innocent motorists, or murdering one’s spouse and children in a Gig Harbor parking lot, or bludgeoning a poor bastard on the head with a metal thermos in a fit of road rage. Spend five minutes at the JBLM PX, Dennis Geyer or no Dennis Geyer, and you’ll see worse values walking around in uniform than most hookers could come across in a lifetime. As Dennis Geyer once said, veins visibly throbbing on his temples, “Calm down, Dennis, he’s just the intern.” Because when Dennis J. Geyer, MD is in the neighborhood, things aren’t looking too hot for those in the Speed van, nor are the slide stains in the postoperative pathology lab safe from his Superman moves through the cut in the wall. Or, as our mutual acquaintance at JBLM told me when I asked him about all the thugs sauntering about on post, “Those, my friend, are the enlisted.”
As Muhammad Ali might have said, no fat whore in Tacoma ever bugged me about natural family planning or told me that I don’t really need sex. And as the recently departed James Traficant did in fact say, “In your hearts, you want wider bottoms.” I’m not going to discuss who I’ve witnessed bugging people on Facebook about this kind of shit as recently as this evening, since I’m trying to keep things wholesome around here, notwithstanding my foregoing brief history of nonwhorish Tacomans gone wild, and even though I know most of you didn’t come here in good taste (I certainly didn’t). I’m mainly writing this essay as an excuse to try out my latest all-too-beloved turn of phrase, whose proper verb I do believe is in fact schtup, even though Tacoma is goy as shit. Like Levi Johnston, I’m not here to kiss and tell; if you’re that interested, you can figure out all by your lonesome how to get a lot more than your eyes on that prize.
Nor am I about to give you the answer to the riddle at the top, although I’ll offer a hint: the letter is one that can be used to spell “dong.” If I have to explain why this is the correct answer, you just failed as a citizen.
If you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch towards, ahhhhmmm, Seattle.