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Opinion: “If My Wife Ever Dies, I’m Gonna Be a Total Hound”

A Guest Editorial by Buck Marvin, Toledo Native

Buck and Tiffany Martin: The rings come off at death

My wife Tiffany means the world to me. Before we met in college, I was lost in a sea of self-doubt and uncertainty. And over the past nine years she has given me more love, support, and companionship than any man could ask for.

But if something tragic were to ever happen to her — like a credenza plummeting from a skyscraper window or a drunk driver running her Jeep off an old wooden bridge — I’m gonna be a complete and total hound, nailing every chick who’ll let me.

I’d probably start with our babysitter, Suzzie Haskins. Suzzie’s 17, has a luscious set of jugs, and once told me she loved strawberry ice cream. If Tif ever got leukemia, and wasted away over a vast period of weeks and months, with her hair falling out and body crumbling upon itself like wet newspaper, I’d probably hit the Haskins’ house right after the funeral. Suzzie’d be there all alone, fresh out of the shower, and before you know it, she’d be covered in Breyers and bent over the upstairs handrail taking seven inches of The Buckster in her sweet virgin ass.

And then there’s Maggie, our next door neighbor who teaches kindergarten and has a boyfriend over in Iraq. If there was ever a gas leak in our house when I was away on business, and Tif slowly asphyxiated during the night, her gorgeous lips turning blue with the stain of death, I’d certainly need to stay over at Mag’s place for a few days. She’d try to console me by making pancakes, chatting idly about the weather, and then boom: we’d sixty-nine in her guest bedroom until our jaws ached from munching each other’s naughty parts.

Or my sister-in-law, Olivia. You know, I love my brother Drew, but since the car accident he's been a bit loopy, and you just know his wheelchair-bound self means that Olivia's got to be hornier than a howler monkey on Ecstasy. After Tif died from that mysterious and tragic poisoning episode, Olivia would be sitting with me on the couch after the wake, and we would have this crazy grief sex all night long, pieces of stale Cheetoes sticking to our sweaty asses as we romped in our loss.

I hope none of this stuff happens, though. Honest. Tiffany is my soul mate, my best friend, my rudder in this crazy mixed-up world. But if she ever dies on the floor of a sushi restaurant choking on puffer fish, or gets mugged, raped, and stabbed in a dank alleyway downtown, you know I’m gonna play the field, brother, and shag like a man possessed.

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Sweet! Dead wives mean more boffing!
That's gross. Whoring one's self out like that...that's like a sexual terrorist.
And, what's wrong with that?

Try to think outside of the box...
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