MKPoM: answers: marriage update

Marriage Competition Gets Even Hotter

In the time-honoured phrase, I don't seem able to keep the women off with a shitty stick. For three more eligible bachelorettes have plunged headlong into the hormone-crazed free-for-all that is my Marriage Contest, clawing and hissing at their rivals, reduced practically to the level of brute animals in their all-consuming desire to obtain My hand in marriage.

Sarah Carmichael writes:

Please consider me to be your wife. I am an 18 year old, insane, tallish, red-haired nymphomaniac [My favourite derangement] of Scottish origin and noble ancestry who has come to fall deeply in lust with you. [And who can blame you?] As well as having an incredible figure, I am extremely adept in cuisine related activities - such as baking cakes and making sandwiches. [Mmmm!] But when I'm not in the kitchen, I enjoy other activities such as mud wrestling, giving full-body massages [Cool], exercising my tongue and wiggling my nose like a little rabbit. [Phwoar!] Every waking moment of my life over the past 6 weeks have been spent scrawling the name Sarah Kelly all over the walls of my room in red lipstick in the hope that I will one day acquire it. [Or maybe I could take your name and be Michael Carmichael.] I offer you my body. With it I could take you to levels of pure intense passionate bliss that you never dreamed could exist. [Ohhh, I's dreamed, all right.] I am a lot better than those other two skanks who entered the competition. [Ooh! Ooh! Catfight!]

Sarah: braw Scots lassie

Slana writes:

Dearest Michael, I am divorcing my third husband soon and am looking into prospects for number four. I'm intrigued by men with a twist, not an olive. [Cor! I'm not sure what that means but it sounds saucy.] I'm not even close to 82, but am better than half there. But really, who wants some giggling slip of a girl who's never read Jane Austen and aspires to be Britney Spears? [Miaow!] While not given to heavy tweed, I am eminently sensible, (except about vodka), a self-employed liberal arts major, and I've been around the block enough times to not react seriously to the lesser road signs. [That sounds saucy too, although it may just mean she is a bad driver.] Although my family has been in the States for 300 years or so, my family is British as far back as the Domesday Chronicles and I am heir to the ruins of Hilton Castle. [Whoah! Cool] It could be our rustic little fixer-upper, and they'd have to call you Earl. [Earl. Michael. Horatio. Kelly. Yes.] Yr. admirerer, Slana

Slana: foxy older woman,
wise in the ways of L'Amour

Sabine Keller:

i write in hopes that you will that you will enter me into the marriage contest. i can't bake or make love (due to an incident where my pelvis was crushed in a vicious deer attack) [I don't see how that stops you baking], but people say that i am bipolar, so that is sort of like pretending to be two women who will fight over you [Yes! Cool! Two for the price of one]. please let me rule over your life as a vicious, domineering bitch of a wife [Cool]. when i beat out those two tramps currently competing for your hand in marriage, [Ooh! Ooh! Another cat-fight!] we could hyphenate our names so that our children (who i all want named "kelly" regardless of gender) will be named kelly kelly-keller. or kelly keller-kelly if you so desire. [Yes! Exceptionally cool.] ps. update the site soon, or you shall feel the wrath of my german pms-driven rage.

Sabine: dark neurotic Germanic vamp.
With her arse in a cast.

Decisions, decisions. Who to choose? Jo, the humbly adoring child-bride? Minty, the wanton wench who is lost without a master to serve? Sarah, a kilt-clad caber-tossing nympho who will drive me to the heights of ecstasy with her kinky rabbit impressions and make sandwiches afterwards? Slana, a poised, elegant, sophisticated career-woman with a bloody great castle I could play at sword-fights in? Sabine, a decadent jade out of some Weimar cabaret, too full of Teutonic weltschmerz to even hit the Caps Shift key, rendered romantically unattainable by a tragic deer attack but with a personality disorder that offers two birds for the price of one?

Who could possibly choose among them? But wait! I may not have to. 'Omeron' writes, in a spirit of disinterested voyeurism, to advise me of the existence of a Graeco-Roman religion which permits you 'hundreds of wives, whatever you like.' Watch this space for further developments.

(PS. I realize that not everyone is as richly entertained by this competition as I am, but tough, it's my favourite part of the site.)