No, ma'am, 1-800-FUCKBOY Is Not A Delivery Service...
But, now you have me thinking about the damned money.
“Thank you for calling 1-800-FUCKBOY, Ms. Macon speaking, how may I swiftly assist your ass today?”
Now, imagine the look on my softly shimmering face as I listened to the woes of a woman in contemplation over ordering herself a certified pre-owned Fuckboy. Yes, it was exactly that look.
I know exactly what you’re thinking; “Ms. Macon, you love driving the bread truck. There isn’t anything that can get between you and the money…”, and yes, babycakes, you’re 100% correct on that, but, allow me to digress…
Being the absolute woman with all of the optional add-ons added up for essentially every aspect of my life, you know this is material I’ve considered charging someone to purchase the full mailing list for. But, somewhere deep inside my little black soul, there must be a kitten lost or something, because I heard some mewing, and realized I can’t just unleash these peckers of ill repute on women who clearly don’t understand the type of repercussions they may incur.
I have thought many times of collecting a few of the Fuckboys of yore and starting a call out service. I mean, we all know they’re not reporting to a 9 to 5 anytime soon, so it ain’t like they have shit else to do.
But, even with all of those hundred dollar bills hula hipping in my dreams, I can’t do another broad dirty like that. Every single Fuckboy from my little black collection of novellas is not something you want to be entangled with. I know; I once was entangled.
At no time, never, not once, did any of them ever bring something to my life that I couldn’t live without. They didn’t reorganize my closets, they never helped me combat soap scum, nor did they enlighten me on some random topic I wasn’t aware of. Basically, they came around, put their feet on my couch, ate up all of my fucking Lucky Charms, and acted as though the entire universe was some Fuckboy retreat.
Bitch, no. That’s the actual sound of the dumb shit, the words you just read about a sentence and a half ago. Y’all go ahead and *cue the fucking sound of the record scratching*.
Now, I can tell you this: should you become some maestro of the majestically endowed, I will cut you an attractive deal on the aforementioned novella collection. I, however, can not in good conscious have any sort of connection to the corporation, or any of its taxable subsidiaries.
But, I have those digits for the low low. Madam(s), feel free to reach me at 1-800-FUCKBOY xQUEEN, or get me at msmacon@askabitchface.com.