Such anxious feelings are only to be expected when one of the couple is the daughter of America’s stupidest and most wholesomely religious person, and the other is famous only for not properly whapping his cock out in Playgirl magazine.
That is the dictionary definition of ‘mismatch’.
Well, your fears have been realised today, as Bristol Palin announces that her engagement to Levi Johnston is OVER. With a capital O. And then a capital V. And then a… see you after the jump, eh?
…pital E. And then a capital R.
To be honest, we thought that our lives had descended into the basement when we began lamenting the fact that a chubby Alaskan redneck refused to show his cock in Playgirl. But now we find ourselves sunk even lower: we are bringing you the news that the dickless fatboy has once again been rebuffed by his longtime girlfriend, Bristol Palin.
Who would have seen this coming?
(Apart from anyone who’s ever read a single thing about the hapless pair of morons. Or anyone who knows that she is the daughter of a Christian Presidential hopeful and he is an enormous, irresponsible dicktool. Or anyone who scrapes dung from the walls of a remote, rural Indian cattle station for a living and has never heard of either of them but just somehow has a hunch that Levi Johnston is a great big flabby bag of bollocks.)
Okay, so we all saw this coming. Apart from Bristol Palin, who has only just realised that her fianc?e, Levi Johnston, is perhaps the most enormous piece of arse gristle the world has ever seen.
According to People she’s called the engagement off and gone back to live with her parents (Sarah Palin and Sarah Palin’s Husband). Here’s how it all played out, in the words of the privileged whingebag:
I’ve only seen him once in the past three weeks. The final straw was him flying to Hollywood for what he told me was to see some hunting show but come to find out it was that music video mocking my family.
I got played.
Oh yes, Bristol Palin, you got played.
Played by one of the most devious and cunning players out there right now. By a boy who had virtually no coherent reason for marrying you other than the fact you could enhance his pair of careers (which are, by the way, a) advertising pistachio nuts and b) categorically not schlopping out his schlong for a girly porn mag).
Ah, well. It’s the end of a an era.
A beautiful era.
An era which has provided us with innumerable chances to mock the relationship between two backwoods country children from what is basically the Arctic, one of whose parents has overcome congenital stupidity to become a contender for having her finger on the nuclear button which could kill us all.
Not to worry: it won’t be two weeks before they’re having sex on top of Mount Rushmore. And that, people, would probably make her President by default.