Email Order Groom

WC 499

Email Order Groom

By Jack Rawlins

I was shocked when I caught my new wife with her hand up a fat turkey’s ass.My first thought was that Matchmaker Mamba Macoo’s screening to eliminate perverts, nymphomaniacs and bird molesters had broken down.

What’s more, my lady seemed to bloody well get her jollies as she held the bird down with one hand and pumped it with the other.

“What in the name of all that’s lowly, are you up to?” I asked.

“I’m stuffing the turkey, silly,” she answered.

“If you’re stuffing him silly, why isn’t he laughing?” I asked.

“No. You are silly, not the turkey. I stuff him so we can eat him for tonight’s dinner. Didn’t I tell you about Thanksgiving?”

“No you did not. That’s one of many things you didn’t tell me when you wooed me with your erotic emails—like the fact that you weigh two hundred twenty pounds. Though I must admit your weight is distributed quite nicely in each cheek of your big butt.”

“Oh Kunte Myway, you Congolese say the cutest things. Anyway, I did send you a picture.”

“Yes, Weyatta, and now I know why you sent me a head and shoulders picture instead of the full frontal nude I wanted.”

Well, Kunte, you weren’t totally honest with me, either. That picture you sent with your Maasia warrior cousins? I couldn’t tell you were standing on a box—didn’t know ‘til I picked you up at Kennedy that you’re a 4-foot-6-inch Pygmy.”

“You didn’t have to faint.”

“I was only out for a minute. Anyway, little stud muffin, size isn’t everything. Are you happy you married me?”

“Deliriously so,” I lied a little.

Truthfully, I would have married Godzilla to get out of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I was a telephone tech service rep for a US computer manufacturer—until they fired me because I was too easy to understand. Nobody ever hung up on me in frustration. The company hated that. They actually had to honor warrantees and resolve issues.

Yes, Napoleon did alright for a little guy. But he had an army. Nobody seemed to want me, a little nerd without an accent. So I went to Matchmaker Macoo. She matched me with Weyatta who was shopping for an authentic ebony African. After a brief email romance, Weyatta placed her order, confirmed it with a fat check to Ms. Macoo, and sent me a plane ticket.

And now, here I was in a gourmet’s kitchen on Long Island witnessing a pagan ritual.

“What are you putting up that bird’s backside?” I asked.

“It’s bread stuffing.”

“Why don’t you just slice the bread and put it on the table?”

“Because it tastes better after it’s in the turkey.”

“You’re kidding? You push it up his bum to make it taste better? Isn’t there a better way?”

“No!” she snapped. “End of discussion!”

That evening, she force-fed me her stuffing. It was so delicious I forgot where it had been.

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