I’m sure I’ll have lots of thoughtful analysis and exciting updates about Charlie Kaufman and the Dogme 95 filmmakers coming up later today, but in the meantime, here’s a story about the dude from American Pie‘s wife buying him a hooker (I know you’d be reading it anyway). So Mrs. Jason Biggs, aka Jenny Mollen, had a plan to buy her husband of a year a BJ from a hooker for his birthday, which should prove everything you already knew about what happens to women when they get married. But hey, at least the rich ones outsource. Anyway, Mollen detailed the incident herself in a piece for TheSmokingJacket, and like many of my scripts, it all started with a bit of mistaken identity with a massage therapist.

The adventure started when I called up my assh*le friend, Chelsea and asked if she knew any “massage therapists”. Chelsea insisted that this chick would come over and with the proper amount of alcohol, do whatever we wanted. [oh sure, but when I say the same thing it sounds creepy. -Ed]
That night, I made the arrangements. I set the mood, turned on some Enigma, and poured champagne. My husband, however, paced around the house like a lunatic, wondering if he was going to get arrested for having a hooker visit our home. The girl arrived at the proper whoring hour of 9pm. I answered the door in a see-through bra and undies. I led her upstairs to my bedroom where she set up her massage table. About thirty minutes in, I started to realize something was wrong. This girl wasn’t a prostitute!! This girl was a legit massage therapist! F*cking Chelsea set me up.

Was it Chelsea Handler? I bet it was Chelsea Handler. She’s always pulling sh*t like this. Anyway, fast forward about 12 more paragraphs, and they’ve hired a tiny Filipino lady who they pay $300 just to talk. She asks for $300 more for the BJ, but they’ve gone over their ATM quota for the day and she leaves. So a few days later, they hire another hooker, this time a tall blonde with giant fake boobs, which is where this next block quote picks up:

I pressed my face firmly against the peephole to see if I could collect any more data. Then, my entire frame went dark. Knock, knock, knock. Without thinking, I flung open the door and [...] got a face full of silicone shoved up my nostrils. Horrified, I jumped back.

“Hi, I’m Keisha,” she laughed. [...] Seeing the shock on my face, my husband stepped in.

“Welcome!” he said as if we were on Fantasy Island.

[...]

The chick was wearing five-inch heels and had tits that seriously could have knocked anybody under six feet tall unconscious. There was no way she was passing for anything other than maybe Barbarella. In other words, she was hot. I took my cues from the previous day’s disaster and cut to the chase.

“We want you to go down on him for six hundred bucks,” I proclaimed. Keisha, being the professional that she was, didn’t bat an eye.

“Great,” she said plainly. In that instant I realized, I love this whore. First, she informed us that she wasn’t into girls and that if I wanted any action it would only be coming from my husband. [...] She walked us through all the potential upsets: Wife gets hurt and wants to stop, husband can’t get erect; wife and husband can’t focus because they are too aware of the other’s emotions etc. I felt like I was in driver’s ed. and I loved it! This is exactly the type of information I wanted to be armed with. My husband, however, didn’t have the same reaction. With sweaty palms, clearly a bi -product of all the newly discovered potential for failure, he undressed and sat on the bed. Keisha instructed me to do the same.

The bronzed buxom beauty climbed up on my husband, fastened a condom over his semi erect penis and went to work. This was awesome for me. I didn’t have to do anything. For a split second I got worried. “Why am I the wife who isn’t freaking out?” “Do I not love him?” “Oh my god! I am a monster!”

Luckily, her long sparkly nails distracted me from my future couple’s therapy sessions and I was back in the game.

“Do you want to go down on him a bit?” Keisha suggested. In my mind I was thinking, “No, dude, that’s why I paid you the six hundred dollars, to do the work for me! I’m going to be over here eating chips.” Of course, there was no way my husband was going to let me get away with that so I obliged.

The most exciting part of the day was Keisha complimenting me on my blowjob skills. I love approval of any kind. Sadly, however, I think it was pretty obvious that my husband and I were both bored. He quickly became flaccid and we were left with nothing to do but stare at each other. [TheSmokingJacket]

Aw, man, another story to reference Jason Biggs’ semi-erect penis? I hate Mondays.

Anyway, notice how long that was? Notice how there was still [...]‘s in there everywhere where I left stuff out? That’s because the whole story was THIRTY-THREE HUNDRED WORDS. I suffered for this one, people. I guess the moral of the story is, you might marry a chick who’ll spend $900 getting you a blowjob for your birthday, but she’ll probably be the type of girl who thinks a guy almost getting a blowjob is a tale worth three-thousand-plus words. Not a great trade-off, in my opinion. But you know what they say about Jason Biggs. The guy really, really loves whores.