As you doubtless know, the only person worth half a damn in this insufferable shitpile of a town—KGW's charming, beautiful, witty, unspeakably magnetic Steph Stricklen—is currently covering the Olympics in a crumbling corner of the god-forsaken U.S.S.R. (Hey pinkos! How'd that Cold War work out for you? Ha! Fuck you, pinkos!) Now—if your wheezing weakling of a brain has managed to keep up so far—note the following exchange, which transpired yesterday evening, no doubt as you were clapping and guffawing at some insipid bullshit like figure skating.
Was it presumptuous for the douche-rag known as the Portland Mercury to speak on my behalf? Oh, I don't know—are you currently wasting your life by fucking around on the fucking internet? However, but a few short hours later came another delightful missive from Ms. Stricklen—its words sweet and warm, like the softest of springtime breezes, its caressing whispers heralding sunshine and butterflies.
Were Ms. Stricklen not currently imprisoned in Putin's pathetic playground of overwrought spectacle, I would send her a dozen long-stemmed roses, their searing red petals as vibrant as my adoration! Were Ms. Stricklen instead in Portland on this fine evening, she would be fed the most delectable of candlelit meals, poured the most succulent of well-aged wines, and be tirelessly doted upon—her every whim, her every want—by yours truly, Frank Cassano, who would be honored to be in her presence... who would be... dare I say it... smitten as a schoolboy.
Alas.
Well, shit-lip, at least now you've got a reason to watch your little Olympics: to see the indescribably exquisite Steph Stricklen proclaim the unbreakable bond that she and I will forever share... and to see her proclaim it to the world. As soon as you have seen her do so, feel free to return to the regularly scheduled parade of imbecilic failures you call a life! Ha!
