I finally picked me up a campaign broad! She’s a looker too, brown hair and black frame glasses. Cindy went apey when she found out I signed on a young brunette who can reach things for me instead of her. This gal’s 44. A good 11 years younger than the ole ball and chain. She lives in Alaska too. I love that country. “She can keep an eye on those low-down Ruskies from way up there,” I had told Cindy, but I was really watching Pinko to see if I got a rise of him. He was playing “The Number of the Beast” on Guitar Hero, and didn’t take his eyes off Cindy’s LCD, but I still think he heard me because he messed up. Thank God too. He almost beat my high score.
I don’t know what it is about this girl, Sarah, but I feel 60 years old when we’re together. Maybe it’s because she’s a little dumber than Cindy, and I don’t have to hear continuous back-talk from her. I love that. She understands me too. On the plane to Minneapolis, an aide pissed me off (for the second time) when he lectured me on my use of the word, “colored.” I was furious and would have boxed his ears if Sarah hadn’t brought me a warm bottle of Saigon Export and softly hummed my favorite Connie Francis tune, “Where the Boys Are,” until I fell asleep.
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