Hey, Kristen! Where were you last summer? Were you hanging out with your friends Ron and Stan? Or were you smuggling cocaine into the country? You tell me Kristen! Word on the street is that it’s the latter. And if that’s true, we have so much to talk about, Kristen!
Kristen, this isn’t a joke, man. This isn’t some bullshit you can just weasel your way out of, young lady. This is some shit. Some fucked up shit and you need to take responsibility for it, goddamnit. Kristen, are you paying attention at all?
Look, I know this partly my fault. I never should have given you the combination to my safe, that shotgun, or the fourteen kilos of uncut Colombian white powder. I definitely shouldn’t have asked you to smuggle it in from Juarez. That was my bad. But, Kristen, you gotta own up to your shit, girlfriend!
No, seriously, you have to own up to your shit. Literally, your feces. It was your decision to cram as much of that cocaine up your butt as you could in order to try and get it into the country. I tried to tell you that five kilos was way too ambitious. I’ll admit to being both surprised and extremely aroused, Kristen, when you got two kilos into your rectum, as evidenced by the passionate sex we had that night.
Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have asked you for anal that night. You didn’t have to give it to me though. You totally could have said, “No, Terry, you can’t fuck my ass tonight because I have a little over two kilos of cocaine stuffed up there.” But you just turned around and presented, Kristen. Like a red-assed baboon Kristen. Like a goddamned red-assed baboon.
Hold on. Let’s just catch our breath here. Let’s not go off half-cocked and say things we’ll regret. Maybe the anal sex did force the cocaine to further into your colon, maybe it didn’t. I’m not a goddamned doctor, Kristen. Well, okay. I’m a doctor, but I’m a Ph.D. I study the migration habits of the red-assed baboon for a living Kristen.
I can’t tell you whether the anal sex we engaged each other in (let’s not forget you insisted on “turnabouts is fair play” and I still can’t see out of my right eye, by the way), would have anything to do with the explosive diarrhea you had, excreting over two kilos of cocaine in the process.
For what it’s worth, I am sorry though, and I will definitely reimburse you for the pant-suit you were wearing at the time, Kristen. That is not an admission of guilt though, Kristen. It’s just me trying to be a good person.
I guess you’re wondering why I’m bringing all this up right now. I don’t blame you. It’s been a bit of subtle subterfuge. So I guess what I’m trying to say is…
Will you marry me, Kristen C. Corbin? You’ll make me the happiest red-assed baboon scholar in the whole-wide world!
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