Yesterday Google sent me the following question “Why don’t women trust?”
The simple answer is Bristol Palin.
Well, to clarify, I can only really answer why women don’t trust me. The answer to that is Bristol Palin. Tender, thick, dangerous if under-prepared–like a pork chop–Bristol.
I have some very understanding friends. I have largely received grudging nods to my point that she is 19, so, clearly of age. I also seen suppressed giggles when I assert that clearly she puts out (see: Tripp Easton Mitchell Johnston).
Recently I think I took my “say what is on your mind” frankness too far when I asserted that Bristol probably looks like the following picture under her polka-dot dress.
Except, you know, with yearling wolf pelt lining and a Raised in Alaska tattoo.
I think that laying sweet Bristol down onto the cream and sage floral print sheets of my IKEA futon mattress is one of the few things that would make even me feel a little dirty. but, it’s a fun thought and something that no girl, thus far, has been willing to role play.
And that is why women don’t trust me.