Scott came out of the bathroom with a self-satisfied look this morning. I knew what that look meant. "I've lost five pounds," he said flashing that famous porn smile. "Go fuck yourself," I said as I sipped my 90 calorie vanilla almond latte. "What?" This is what bugs me about men. You promise a man that you will have sex with him one day a week for every 10 pounds of weight he loses and all of a sudden all that beer melts off his belly like ice cream on a sticky toddler. We just started this diet on Monday and today is Thursday. He's lost five pounds. I've gained one. By the weekend, we'll be doing the hibbidy-dibbidy at least once. God kill me know. It's not that I dislike sex. I just dislike sex wearing neon panties and looking like Rebel Wilson. You know the British foul-mouthed three-hundred pounder who's all over the place waving her flabby arms in the air and wearing a thong? You've rented Bridesmaids as man...
More than a million served!