Infidelity. Adultery. Pulling in at a foreign port. Spelunking the forbidden squish cavern. These and even more hilarious euphemisms are used to describe what happens when a person in a supposedly monogamous relationship decides that maybe frolicking with someone else's genitals is in order. It rarely ends well.
Few people or cultures have ever supported illicit relationships that stray from whatever established one you're supposed to be in. Every so often you'll find a hippie commune of free love or some swingers who are cool with sexual dalliances, but the rest of us tend to feel betrayal and anger when we find out our snuggle bunny has gone off and snuggled all kinds of other bunnies and their dicks (or bunginas, as the case may be).
In a rational world full of level-headed people, when you find out you've been cheated on, you'll confront your partner and explain how you feel disrespected and that perhaps it's best if you go your separate ways. But what kind of shitty article would that make for? In the real world, people do this stuff.
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Floozies are pretty fantastic in the right circumstances. For instance, you're at the beach house, you have a fridge full of beers and ribs, there's a party scheduled for every night, and you need to choose between Grandma, a nun, and a floozie. The wise choice is the nun only if she's also a floozie. If not, floozie it is. She'll be the most fun. However, if you're already married to a non-floozie, or at least a different floozie, then for God's sake, don't spend the weekend with a floozie. Has the word lost meaning for you yet? I'm borderline.
Somewhere in White Rock, British Columbia, a foolhardy fellow opted to leave his family for "a piece of trash" (the aforementioned floozie), and his wife was understandably left in a position of much chagrinment. Realizing that their relationship was clearly on the outs, she placed a Craigslist ad for his stuff. What stuff? All of his stuff. All of it was for sale, and all of it was to be sold before he got home from his weekend of enfloozery.
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"I gave her the big D, y'all!"
I never run across sales like this, and that's sad, because I could use a new juicer and some Xbox games (the last one I bought was Injustice, and I beat that pretty quickly). If anyone who lives nearby would like to cheat on their wife, and then if any of the wives would like to sell all their crap at a steal, please let me know.
The local paper showed up, because everyone loves the circus, and people who attended claimed to get some pretty good deals on furniture, tools, and fishing gear. Unfortunately, there were no clothes available, as, according to the ad, they had already been burned the day before. Ha ha, vandalism!
Paul Osborn had been hearing unseemly rumors about his wife. Was she a One Direction fan? Worse -- she was a flagrant humptathlete, peppering the neighborhood with free access to her goodie bin. Or at least that's what Osborn claimed he discovered after reading some of her emails in which she discussed her sex life with another man. Osborn did the only thing a man in his position could do -- he went bugfuck ridiculous.
Taken under inspiration's wicked wing, Osborn decided to write up an ad for his wife on eBay. Not to sell her possessions, just to sell her. Starting at one cent, Osborn got bidding up to half a million British pounds, despite the ad specifying that she was worth "sod all." Sod! That's like trash!
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"Is someone toasting provolone, or is that my vagina?"
The ad itself featured a picture of his wife picking her nose and described her as a "lying, cheating, adulterous bitch whore," although some news sources insisted it was "lying, cheating adulterous slag," which I must say I prefer, because "slag" is a really fun insult. It also included her cellphone number, the number of the guy she was sleeping with, and the number of the business where they both worked. All things considered, it was pretty charming.
The police were less than amused by Osborn selling his wife online and paid him a visit to warn against posting "offensive, indecent, obscene, and menacing" messages online, which means probably I can never use the Internet in England ever.
Tim Shaw is a British DJ, so he's an asshole you find charming because of his accent. I hope that British radio shows feature dignified sound effects and discussions about the economy and football, all whilst enjoying fish and chips or bangers and mash with liberal use of the "C" word, which, for those in the U.K. who never refer to it euphemistically, is "cunt."
On one particular show, Shaw was talking with Jodie Marsh, a British boobie model know for her boobies and her willingness to show her boobies. He claimed that he would be willing to leave his wife and kids for her, a joke that she may have found funny but that his wife, who was listening, found hysterical. I bet she literally slapped her knee.
After the knee-slapping subsided, Mrs. Shaw went online and listed Mr. Shaw's $38,000 Lotus Esprit on eBay (that's European for "ugly sports car") for about 75 cents. It sold in a few minutes, and a happy customer drove it away before Shaw even came home from work.
Seeing as Shaw didn't actually commit adultery, but merely made public his willingness to do so at the drop of a hat with a total stranger, he was able to make amends with a public apology on a television show, and he even got his car back for only about $7,500. Hopefully he really goes all the way sometime, not for the pain it will cause his family, but for the mirth it will bring the rest of us when his wife does something drastic, like gluing Japanese hornets to his scrotum while he sleeps.