Chris Christie licked a fat dollop of Miracle Whip off the oily palm of his grubby hand as he dug his rancid foot into a bulk container of margarine. "That's tha good shit," he muttered, his gangrenous toes squishing the imitation butter. After licking it clean, he dug his hand into the Miracle Whip again, repeating his task of sensually swirling his rotting tongue around his odorous skin.
With his free hand, he fiddled with the remote, channel surfing until he was satisfied with an infomercial channel. Men testing out weights lit up the screen, their muscles bulging in wife beaters the color of burned sausage. Then came two women, burdened by dollar store clip-in extensions, selling shirt extenders. "I can practically smell the St. George on them," he snickered, grunting in pain as he moved down to swap out the buckets. You see, his routine consisted of dipping his entire hand in and licking off either margarine or Miracle Whip, and letting his feet rest in the other, switching them when satisfied.
As he did that, the tight girdle under his shit-stained button down burst open, revealing the blubbery, hellish abyss of Chris's gut. The smell of a combination of blue cheese, cat piss, and burnt hair.
"Who am I kidding?" he wept as he touched his destroyed girdle. "I'm just vacuum-packing myself. This...this rock 'n' roll lifestyle - what with the margarine and Miracle Whip - that won't fly forever. I need to make a lifestyle change. I think...think I'll just buy some pork roll instead."And the stars were aligned.
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Chris Christie x John Kasich: Warm Brown Eyes in Trenton
RomanceJohn Kasich is a Columbus silver fox with a chip on his shoulder. When he arrives in New Jersey to try to step foot into the pork roll industry, he's met with a much porkier, rolier surprise than he anticipated.
