"What do you mean Pretty Good you anorexic skank.?" I screamed at her with the volitility of Hugh Hefner at a bottle of Viagra that doesn't function properly. I said, "Pretty Good, Pretty Good, maybe I don't smell like a walking water bong with broomstraw hair and a shirt made out of old S.O.S. pads like your husband, but I a pretty awesome on my own." After she cried for just about 4 hours I broke down and accepted an apology. Only because I really wanted some desert and didn't want to dish the ice cream myself.

After the whole "Pretty Good" fiasco we got along better. She would occasionaly step across the line and I would have to go upside her head or across the face, but those were rare occasions. After about 5 or 6 beatings she got the point and then we settled into a nice area where I was always right. Oh, but the making out was nice, except for her busted up grill. All in all it was a mildly awesome evening.