A Fond Wish for the Female Elite

This is for all the heartless, shallow society tramps who chose the rich guy, the ones who went for the comfort and safety and prestige of luxury automobiles and well-appointed MacMansions rather than “mere” love.  May you wake up every morning next to lumpy, undulating belly fat and a cheesy gut that hangs like a huge extra scrotum over a male appendage the size and flavor of a cocktail weenie.  May you eventually sleep in separate beds, and may he know exactly why, and hate you for it, because he will know you never ever loved him at all at all at all.  May your life be just like the sorry bimbo in that “Lyin’ Eyes” song by the talented but irritating and cowardly drummer jerk from the Eagles, for you are a cartoon, a caricature of a real person, a Pinocchio who never wanted to be a real girl and is now horrified whenever she sees her own strings.  Tee and hee!

You did it to yourself, sweetie pea. You could have had the nice guy, the good guy who absolutely adored you, who always wanted the best for you, who worshiped the blades of grass you carelessly crushed under your expensively pedicured feet during your long, leisurely summers.  The guy who would have been a great husband and an even better father, because the children you would have borne him would have been part of you and he loved you more than his own soul, the soul you chose to crush and damage irretrievable, laughing while you knowingly ruined the one life that could have made you truly happy.  That guy. You had a chance to stay in the land of the living, but instead you sold out to the men with no hearts.

Now you’re forty-five, pre-menopausal and cranky, either divorced or widowed (because you opted for the “wealthy geezer” package and successfully induced a heart attack whilst pounding your powdered crotch against “Daddy’s” withered loins), rich beyond your wildest, most avaricious finishing school dreams, and completely alone.  We see you sitting silently down at the dark end of the bar, the twelve pounds of expensive makeup you like to wear no longer concealing frown lines and crow’s feet, and we find it very difficult to suppress a giggle at your plight, even as we realize it’s wrong to be pleased at the pain of others.  We all know you, or someone like you.  You were so beautiful and clever and popular in your youth that you never bothered to learn how to be a nice person, and now that huge, grey shark of karma is chewing your well-exercised ass like a juicy chunk of Hubba Bubba.  And you’ve earned every ounce of your hollow misery, Ms. Fashionable Jogging Suit, because your entire life had been dedicated, ruthlessly, to the pursuit of comfort and safety and fun, always at the expense of others.  Your soul is like a desiccated piece of overcooked veal, milk-fed, rancid, raised to be flaccid, never allowed to grow any musculature or even stand by itself.  The self-wrought wretchedness of your life trails you like a miasma of spiritual flatulence.  That comfy blue blankie of selfishness you so carefully cultivated has now turned on you like a rogue boa constrictor, grinning, squeezing its creator in a slow, well-deserved death grip.  And now we nod our heads in recognition whenever we see you, because you and your ilk have infected all our lives at some point, directly or indirectly.  We would pity you if not for all the agony you have inflicted on all those foolish enough to think you were actually a decent human being.

Couldn’t have happened to a nicer gal.  Have a nice day.

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