St. Valentine, Join the NRA and Shoot Someone For My Daughter!

(By Cyril Blubberpuss, Esq.)

     The other day, I was asking one of my junior partners as I was about to stiff an Arabic hot dog vendor on 5th Avenue by accusing him of being a terrorist with a bomb why I can't marry off my only daughter, Bertha Blubberpuss. I mean, seriously, how many 37 year-old virgins do you think there are left in the world, guys?! And since today is Valentine's Day, your moonbat host JP thought it would be a good idea to let me have the floor to make one last, desperate, impassioned plea for my delicate little girl.
     Bertha was always something of an introvert, I'll admit. In her defense it wasn't easy being both the first girl in 3rd grade with breasts and a moustache. Yet she has other qualities and virtues that, if cultivated and drawn out like a starving muskrat from its lair, I'm sure would blossom for the right guy.
     I thought, after she'd matriculated into Bob Jones University on a White History scholarship and became the star of their weightlifting team (super heavyweight), she'd get snapped up in no time. Likewise, when she also became the star of the BJU wrestling team (thank heavens for the unlimited weight class). Likewise when she became the star linebacker for the school's varsity football team and put four Division III quarterbacks in the CCU in her freshman year alone.
     But since 1994, no matter how many eligible young conservative bachelors I invite, beg, bribe, cajole, wheedle or kidnap, none of them seem to want to eat ever again after meeting poor Bertha. For her part, my poor delicate flower is so hurt by their shallowness and callousness that she retreats into her Melissa Etheridge and kd lang CDs while looking up at her Rosie Perez posters, cries while watching The Ellen Show and gets a moustache wax before going to Lilith Fair every year.

     I mean, look at her, for fuck's sake! Look at that pain and anguish, that plaintive look that almost says, "Oh, Daddy, men don't understand me and I'm perfectly fine with that!" Poor, brave girl.
     I've even taken out Craigslist singles' ads online for poor Bertha but so far, despite putting them in W4M, the only responses she's gotten are not from handsome college Republicans but female ice road truckers and lady oil workers on Alaska's North slope. No doubt, they, too, are lonely young women looking for solace and female companionship. But Bertha doesn't need a pen pal who sends her the occasional men's BVDs that smell suspiciously like flounder (I guess Karla, the lady who works on the North slope on an oil rig, lives in or near a fishing village).
     So, since a sizable dowry and blackmail isn't getting us anywhere, I call on the spirit of Charlton Heston. By Ted Nugent's Crusty Shorts, will the NRA gods please smile on Casa de Blubberpuss and recruit Cupid so he can shoot some eligible male in the ass with his magic arrow? At this point, I don't even care if he shoots some Nancy boy looking for cover while cultivating a career on Wall Street. It''s time my little girl left the nest. Because Bertha's beginning to scare our illegal maid Rosita with her intense, predatory gaze while curling dumb bells and looking down at her from the top of the stairs.