... and on that note ...

Okay, is this wrong?

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-goodfornothing

Okay, strike that. I don't need to ask. It's wrong. It's so wrong.

I mean, like: the premise?

Cowboy kidnaps girl, calls her a whore (but an English whore, so that's ... okay, somehow?), and attempts to rape her but can't get his 4-inch weenie up, so he takes her cross country from doctor to doctor to cure his ... issue ... so, get this: he can rape her good and proper?

And because of his dedication, okay, get this: she falls for him?!?!?!

And when I say 'cowboy' I should be really saying 'anarchic psychotic sociopathic mass murder serial rapist,' right?

Or just 'boy' 'Cow'boy or otherwise.

(Boyz, I'm sorry, I have boy-issues).

Okay, that's so wrong!

But how come, watching it, it makes me feel so right?

It's the Stockholm-syndrome, girls-who-fall-for-mass-murderers-on-death-row sickness, I know. You know: the William Munny problem. A murderer of men, yes, but women and children, too, a drunkard, a callous bastard, riding into town, killing every swinging dick, riding out, having all the poor waifs waving their hankies as he rides off into the sunset (or actually under the torrential rain) and having to do an extra load of laundry with, get this: CALGON! because of the now-unwearable condition their panties are in.

Now, some of you girls might now be very green with jealousy, muttering, 'What's he got that I can't give you!'

*snicker* Well, that's your problem, not mine.

And then you're all like, incensed!, and scream, now, in my face, 'What!'

And, but, I'm cool as a cucumber (hmmm, cool cucumbers! ... ooh!)

Listen sister, put on your cowboy, well, cowgirl hat, strap on with monty, then mount this wild mare, and ride me until the cows come home. That'll solve the problem good, long, and hard ... and often.

And if that's not enough, get the 27-inch bigus dickus model, shove that thing so hard into kitty that the cock-head pops out my mouth, grab hold of that and bow-saw fuck me to death.

*Ahem!* *Whew!* Um, where was I?

Oh, yeah, the old West and getting fucked by a psychopath like nobody's business.

Okay, you want to know what's so, so wrong about this movie, that little `phfina, private investigator, found out on her lonesome, that nobody else told me but I found out anyway, 'cause I'm sweet, smexy, and so-damn-smart, and that's how I roll, huh?

Look at the movie producers.

Uh, huh. Guess which ... um: 'star' is one of the film producers?

Damn, this is going to be a good popcorn flick to watch, with my hand between my gf's legs, and her hands very safely strapped down so she needs to depend entirely on my light, fluttering, teasing fingers to please her as she watches the embarrassing, steamy or sweet scenes on the screen.

'Cause for me? My bosom is heaving under my corset, and my knickers are stained, again, under my petticoats.

Uh, huh: I found my movin' bodice.

Wrong? Yes! Hell, yes!

... but so, so, mmhm, so right.

Excuse me a mo' ... I have to ... 'excuse' myself.

Surgeon General's note: the use of 27-inch strap-ons have been deemed to be detrimental to women's health and has been observed to cause cancer in, well, mostly sheep.

Disclaimer: all actresses strapping-on and being ridden are professionals. Do not attempt any acts described herein in the safety and comfort of your own homes

... and if you do, pm me first.