Amour sucks! So thought Connie Shuck’s ghost as it hovered in the rafters of Holy United in Christ church watching her murdering, philandering, ex-fiance pledge his vows to her little sister. The two-timing weasel always pooh-poohed her whenever Connie mentioned that the two were “gettin’ kinda chummy.” “We’re going to be family,” was his stock reply. Well guess what asshat: “family” don’t get caught “gettin kinda chummy” with the maid-of-honor, her younger sibling, in the downstairs bathroom, especially on the day of her big sister’s wedding to the same asshat. On second thought…yeah, they do. Familles suck too! Merde!
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After flushing her engagement ring down the toilet along with her marriage plans for later in the afternoon, Connie went upstairs to pack–not for the honeymoon the two had planned for Paris, but to leave the dickless wonder for good. Unfortunately for her, Dickless followed her up the stairs to argue his case that could have been carved into a wheel of Swiss cheese–”It’s not what it looks like”—and then grew argumentative because now it was all her fault because she just didn't quite have the “goods” that little sister had. “I prefer Shuck babe 2.0. Sorry,” he confessed and walked away.
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Making a Swirling Dervish seem like a breeze, Connie cycloned down the hallway in full force, ready to shred Dickless’s face along with the sham marriage license he held in his pocket—yeah, the one you showed to everyone at the rehearsal dinner last night, then gushed about how happy the marriage was going to be. You were thinking of sis, weren't ya, Ballsack for Brains, she thought, her scarlet bayonets glued, locked, and loaded on each of her ten fingers.
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Her attack might have been savage enough to require band-aids, sutures–staples!, but for the hallway being on the second floor. Barreling down with Cat-5 intensity, Connie misjudged her angle and, instead, fell into ex-fiance's sister-groping arms. Fending her off, he pushed her back towards the landing. She slashed. He pushed back. She channeled Wolverine. He pushed back harder. She tumbled over backwards.
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The newspaper reported that the scene was gruesome; that Connie Shuck’s head: “resembled a busted-up melon seeping with ketchup–with ‘cantaloupe juice and tomato paste blended with secret spices’ splattered on the walls and on every single one of the hardwood steps her cascading body smacked. Her landing, using the melon analogy, was not a smooth one.” They reported that Grieving Fiance had called 9-1-1. He told the police that Connie tripped over the rug runner while gallivanting down the upstairs hallway, all happy and excited for their wedding only a few hours away. One that now, sob, will never happen, sob, sob, sob.
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The coroner ruled Connie's death an accident, and the new Mr. and Mrs. Dickless Ballsack were hitched without a hitch, ten months later.The postponed honeymoon went on as well, only with Little Sister now the bride, and Connie a jilted, pissed-off, ethereal on-looker in the City of Lights, steaming as the two enjoyed their honeymoon together: their champagne picnic on the Left Bank, their smooching at the Louvre, their joyous laughter at the sidewalk cafes.
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Connie Shuck’s ghost could take no more. Her invisible red-nailed hand tripped murdering, philandering, ex-fiancé at the top stair of the Eiffel Tower, causing him to lose his balance and pinball all the way down to the last. French authorities said there wasn't much left of the body as it was une pulpe sanglante (a bloody pulp) by the time it caromed off every single one of its 1,665 cast-iron steps.
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Connie Shuck’s honeymoon in Paris était magnifique! Touché!
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