Your Daughter’s Hand
Mister Kelly, thank you for meeting with me today. You’ve probably guessed that I invited you here to ask for your daughter Jessica’s hand in marriage. Jessica means the world to me. We’ve been dating seriously for three years, and we’ve been having full, penetrative intercourse for awhile now.
I can’t be sure of any one moment when I knew Jessica and I were destined to get married. It could have been our time together in AmeriCorps or our hiking trip to the Adirondacks. One particular bout of highly-active sexual congress comes to mind. But, then again, it could have been any of a thousand times we were pleasuring each other carnally.
Now just feels like the right time to ask Jessica to marry me. I mean, after everything we’ve been through and done together and done to each other—the next logical step seems to be marriage and starting a family. We’re certainly well-practiced at the mechanics of making a baby.
I can’t describe to you the joy it has been getting to know your daughter—her warm laugh, her kind heart, her surprisingly flexible hips. Every day is a new surprise with Jessica. She’s very inventive.
They say that when you meet the right girl, something clicks. Like the way her and my genitals interlock—it just feels right. God, it feels right.
I guess what I’m saying is this: With your blessing, it would be my honor to ask your daughter to be my bride. She’s my sunshine and my hope, my inspiration and my naughty minx. I can’t imagine my life without her. Though one time we did do this roll-playing thing where I imagined her as a Spanish maid, but that’s not really applicable.
Anyway, what do you say, Greg? Can I call you Greg? How about Pops?
Leave a comment