The other day I read a hilarious article titled I Love My Fat Disgusting Pig Wife by Megan Amram and was inspired to write my own version of it.
Please know, no bowling alley wives were harmed in the creation of this.
I love my big, fat, bowling alley wife Eliza. I love the way she shoves her smelly, greasy sausage feet into those teensy, tiny shoes and the ancient magically infused swords (from China) we need to get them off with. I love the whole stinking’, rotting, sweaty process of it all.
The first time I realized we needed a magical sword to get the shoes off, my wife was at her weekly larping game still wearing her nacho cheese stained bowling shoes (from last week) and had just ate 5 horses and 3 knights, which, might I add, caused quite the ruckus.
Fryer Fudd, the grand larping wizard in charge of the whole sha-bang, bore witness to my wife’s incurable hunger and was visibly revolted at the sight of losing three fellow virgins to my beautiful, gluttonous wife.
With tears in his eyes he reacted by wildly swinging his magically infused sword and he miraculously (because he is uncoordinated) nicked my wife’s undeniably cute bowling shoes causing them to snap off and go flying free to be at home with the satellites. After the ‘snap’ we heard a deafening rush of blood swarm into my delicate wife’s nearly-dead feet and grabbed our ears crouching scared from the shock waves. We nearly died. Good times.
I love the process it takes when we dress my tub-of-lard, farm-raised wife Etna to get her ready to go to her home away from home… the bowling alley. When we decide to dress her, myself and my three strongest friends grab a corner of the tarp and begin the all day struggle to place it on her.
Hours later, when we’re all done working in the hot sun, with sweat dripping down our brows and hands wiping our foreheads, we feel a sense of pride as we round the last meter of my wife and with bloody hands finally getting the shirt on.
Man, what production it is, getting her dressed and all but it’s so worth it as she looks so stinkin’ cute. I often catch myself biting my knuckle trying to suppress the sexual tension that chokes the air when she’s all dolled up but that hardly ever tames my wild desires… I should bite harder. My friends who also have large, vomiting, lunar eclipse wives have no problem forfeiting their time for a brother in arms…. They’re good guys.
When we get to the alley, the smoker circle outside the entrance parts like Moses opening the sea, for my round, dimpled-dumpling to roll through. She doesn’t even say hi to them, they just get the hell out of the way. That’s what I like about people… people who just bow to the side for my fat disgusting, handsome wife Frank. Apparently, they know if they were to ever rub shoulders against her, they would be stuck in the flab.
That actually happened to my best friend Gerald. Gerald was a good guy who sold great refrigerators. One day, after eating a snack, my big, humongous, elephant -ass wife, grunted because she was ready to go refrigerators shopping.
So what I did was lay down carrots in a nice and neat line and lead her into the store showering her in compliments every laborious step of the way. That big blob I love ate the carrots until she was in front of the steely refrigerator.
Gerald, being the consummate salesperson poked my large, gargantuan, bowl of butter wife to get her attention and was instantly sucked in like quicksand. I remember seeing his fingers wildly flaying until they were fully sucked in. As the last tip of the finger drowned in the flab, it made a “pop” sound… my wife and I giggled uncontrollably.
Gerald was a good guy but I’d trade a thousand Gerald’s for 1 chance at love with my wife Joe. I hope all of you can meet a pig like her.
Anyways, bowling with Greg is sexual orgy all on it’s own. After the firemen cut a hole in the roof and a helicopter air lifts Greg, all-fixed-up into the alley, we set her down square in the middle of lanes blocking all chances for other bowlers to roll a strike. They love it.
What Tiffany then does is start grabbing people randomly and starts bowling with them, it’s a true hands on experience. Every so often she’ll snack on one person, making sure not to spoil her dinner. This event continues until the people are too battered and bruised to continue and are crying shriveled up in a dark corner away from my hot-dog-stuffin’, mustard gargling wife.
When ol’ Allison is finally tired from the long evening of bowling I break out my tranquilizer gun and put her down… on a pillow of course. I then call in my friends in the crane rental industry and we lift her up and carry her home.
I love my wife, I really do! I hope one day you get a chance to meet her!
Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think. Do you love your bowling alley wife or husband? For Context, this was written as a joke.