Ever just wish you could meet your mail-order husband and spend the night making love?

Imagine filling out a form, like one of those “Save the Children” sponsorships, but for your dream man: 45+, educated, well-endowed, thick hands, eats with his mouth shut, opens doors, puts the toilet seat down, cleans up his shaving whiskers, gives amazing cunnilingus, and prefers to sleep in the guest room.

You submit it, feeling hopeful, and then you wait. And wait. But, of course, the LA fires have disrupted the supply chain, and now it’s taking forever to deliver him. Classic.

So, you wait. Staring out the window, constantly refreshing your phone for an updated delivery status. Nothing. Over and over, you check, hoping for news. Still nothing.

The winds keep howling, fires keep sparking, and your patience wears thin. Then, finally, he arrives. The relief is overwhelming. You open the box, and there he is — smelling like new car fragrance, his untouched dick pristine and fresh, his skin impossibly soft under your fingertips. He doesn’t even know how to belch. Perfect.

He’s so perfect that you can’t resist taking him to the park to show him off to Cindy. Of course, she one-ups you immediately, bragging about her two mail-order husbands who take turns fucking her every night. Classic Cindy.

Fuck you Cindy.

So, you trudge back home, shoulders slumped, and plop down in a pout, arms crossed. Mom walks in and notices immediately. “What’s wrong? You didn’t even touch your spaghetti.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you huff, “Well, Mom…” another dramatic pause, “…Cindy gets fucked by two mail-order husbands every night.”