This is a tough post to write, because it cuts so deeply. But I can’t remain silent, waiting for the world to change.
As some of you know, Bar Refaeli once spent a few months as my lover. To call that time “profound” would be an understatement; I was forever changed. She was like sexual Oxycontin. If you had told me I had to pay $10,000 every time I popped her pill, I would have immediately sought out a reasonable line of credit and invested in a hearing aid. And since Bar, I’ve been all about the Jewish girls. It’s like my cock is Emperor Hadrian, and all it wants to do is storm their sexy love-temples with my wriggling legions.[1]
This is how I like to remember Bar: carefree, happy, waxed...
Alas, when my little Mars Bar (private joke between us… ’cause she was always walking around full of my nougat) decided that she could no longer wait for me to decide between our love and my career, I sincerely wished her well in starting a relationship with that DiCaprio guy. Even though my work (fist-fighting mutant bipedal rhinos for the secret anti-childhood-leukemia serum contained in their horns) keeps me busy (and smelling of rhinoceros dung), I’ve always made a point of watching over her from afar.
Recently, I began to notice a disturbing pattern. It started when her thing with Leo was getting rocky; I noticed little comments in the media that were designed to get my attention.
I'm surprised the photographer let her wear my old cock-ring as a bracelet.
Yeah, to most of you, that reads like a press release. But once you know that her nickname for me was “Rampage McCockthrust”, it’s obvious she was trying to catch my eye. Bar being Bar, she wouldn’t just come out and say anything, but I could tell something was up. Then I actually started to worry when I spotted this photo in Sports Illustrated:
Her gaze is so hungry in this shot. Eric Carmen sang "Hungry Eyes". Eric Cartman sang "Come Sail Away". I gave Bar her first multiple orgasms on the deck of rented yacht named "Ankhors Away". She had multi-Os because I found her G-spot. Many doctors claim the G-spot is a myth. So clearly, Bar mythes me terribly.
When I started seeing rumors that she was back with Leo, and the ungrateful little prick was finally considering locking her down, I figured everything was okay, and I could stop worrying. But then… this:
Damn it, Bar! I understand how you must be feeling. You’re about to settle for a petulant movie star when what you really want –really need– are the strong, admittedly musky arms of a heroic champion of the helpless around you. That can’t be easy. I know it isn’t, baby. But you know the one bitter truth that lingers between us, one that demands you put on a brave face and accept the touch of that little pussy from Growing Pains.
You know as well as anyone, my love.
The rhinos just aren’t going to beat up themselves.
Goodbye.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Crack a fucking history book, you lazy-ass anti-Semenites!