One of the happiest days in a woman’s life is when she gets married for the first time. Her parents pushed for this day since they slipped a really cute dress on her in her youth. It’s all about finding a mate, settling down and living happily ever after. All those ridiculous rituals and brainless behaviors that humans think they must endure is bulldozed over, in time, by chips and freighter loads of Neapolitan ice cream. More wedding rings got stuck on Blueberry Brulee brides that blew up over the years than those of Saturn. Immediately they started conveyor belting children and, in the process, gained 1 more of themselves with trains of groceries. When visiting friends at backyard picnics, their husbands take 4-12″x12″x1″ plywood pads so the wife’s lawn chair doesn’t sink outta sight. At first, this is sexy as those boobs just keep getting bigger and bigger: the two hanging off the chest and the one going off to work just to feed the farm. But, as the revolving sun spins sagging skin onto the body, the bulldozers of their 50’s starts grading spare tissue hanging off the bride’s body into back fat furrows, and fat ass dams that spill into pussy pots and thundering thighs. Over the decades, the bulldozers pushed those perky boobs into levees that pool off the bloated stomachs. It is at this stage that the bride and groom wonder why the floor in their bedroom looks like a crater impact. Years of stress and surrender have launched the Cellulite Caterpillar bulldozers to float, furl, and fuse flesh into a lumpy landfill of flowing fat. This is a terrain of mush tush, mogul mounds of mammalries, and six mugs sliding down the neck and puddling in the upper arms and back. Buried in that Jabba the Hut frame was that gorgeous bride you waltzed down the aisle long ago. Her portrait dazzles the visitors and shuts them up when you tell them that the beauty on your mantle was, and is, your slightly, supersized spouse. LOVE IS BLIND, and for a very damn good reason.  

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