Heavy

Hadn’t heard much from my gambler friend Duck Diamonds since he abruptly took a leave of absence — that’s industry lingo for fducking a hostile “client/investor” — but he sent me a post card from wherever he is with the following report:

I’m dating a big fat fucking pig.

Come spring, she likes to show her belly button (see photo).

Big girl. Keeps her vibrator on a gun rack.

Keeps her contraceptive foam in a fire extinguisher.

One night she forgets her diaphragm, we use a hubcap.

First time: She took off all her clothes, laid in bed, spread her legs . . . I say to myself, “What am I doing in this lane? I don’t have exact change.”

But she was always fat. She was born an only twin.

As a kid, she used to find money that was left under her pillow by the tusk fairy.

I mean, you know a girl is fat if she’s standing in front of you naked andyou can’t see her pubic hair.

She has cheese in the folds of her neck.

She’s built like the Liberty Bell, only her crack was bigger.

I didn’t know whether to fuck her, or take the burro ride down.

Her last gynecologist quit. He’s afraid of the dark.

She puts in her tampons with a bazooka.

One night there was a fire in her apartment building, and the firemen were using her diaphragm to catch the people who were jumping out of the windows.

I took her to Mount Rushmore, she couldn’t decide which face to sit on.

It takes her an hour to take a dump . . . Forty-five minutes just to line up the holes.

She’s got boogers the size of Swedish meatballs. Hey, when she sneezes, we’ve got appetizers.

Of course, she insists that she’s not fat, it’s just that they built the sidewalks too close to her ass.

I’ll be home soon.

My advice: Duck, Diamonds! Duck!