He Takes It To The Limit One More Time

Lately, J-Fed has been coming around a lot more, and his disposition has been quite sunny. At first I thought it was because of another woman, but no, it was something far more sinister. Just when I thought J-Fed couldn’t go any lower, he hit rock bottom. As he sat outside smoking a cigarette and drinking a Frappuccino, he got a serious look on his face. I knew this could only mean trouble.

“Kiki, I want to ask you something. Will you sponsor me?” he inquired.

For a brief moment, I felt the Earth move under my feet and the sky come tumbling down. Had he joined A-holes Anonymous? Or was it some other support group that specialized in reforming cigarette-smoking, Frap-drinking, armoire-pissing, money-splurging men into productive members of society? It didn’t matter. If he wanted me to play an integral role in his rehabilitation as a husband, a father and a man, he could count me in. I would not only be his sponsor, but I would hold his hand throughout the entire journey. Together, we would conquer the 12 steps.

But my joy was short-lived. My hopes of a reconciliation with the new and improved J-Fed were quickly dashed when he dropped the G bomb – as in go cart. Oh yes, the nincompoop was looking for sponsorship but it had nothing to do with overhauling his image. He wanted financial support for Team J-Fed, and he was looking to his sugar momma for assistance.

“I want a new chasse, and it’s only $3,000. Would you please buy it for me?” he practically begged. He gave me a look of innocence that could only be matched by an angelic choir boy. However, I didn’t need to have my glasses on to realize this skum-sucking louse was trying to take me on a ride alright, a go-cart ride.

“Um, sorry. Bank of Kiki is closed. Kaput. Wiped out. Finished. However, you’d like to think of it. You don’t make any deposits anymore. So why should I allow you to make any withdrawals?” I told him slyly.

“Look, if this is about me not having sex with you, I’ll do it. Just buy the chasse for me and I’ll give it to you as much as you want. Honestly, day or night, I won’t be stingy,” he pleaded.

I went to say something, but once again, I’d thrown up in my mouth a bit. If I needed or wanted sex, I could get it for a whole lot cheaper than $3,000. In fact, I could give it to myself for free. Did he really think I was going to pay him for intercourse? By the look on his face, I’d say the answer was an emphatic yes. J-Fed honestly believed that we should swap cash for sex. I felt like calling the cops and having his ass hauled off to the clink for prostitution.

Instead I kicked him where it counts...

“You know, if you hadn’t moved out, I probably would have had the extra three grand to help you get a new go cart. But seeing as we’re not ‘together’ anymore, I don’t think it would be in my best interest to buy a new go-kart for you. Hey, at least you know I would have bought it for you if we were still together. That should count for something,” I said chipperly.

J-Fed hung his head down in shame. It was the first time I think he’d shown any remorse for moving out. Little did dipstick know, it didn’t matter if he had been living here or on Mars, I wasn’t forking out a dime to support his highfalutin habits. Do you know why? Because I had hired a financial advisor, and her first rule of thumb was no unnecessary purchases. $180 Seven For All Mankind Jeans? Acceptable. Pedicures and manicures? Acceptable. Sushi? Acceptable. Anything related to go carts? Unacceptable.

Poor J-Fed’s meal ticket had expired. Now, he’d have to find some new patsy to feed off of.