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There, There, Ladies. Someday, You Too Shall Find Your Joe Francis.

By Courtney Enlow | Celebrity | November 11, 2010 |

By Courtney Enlow | Celebrity | November 11, 2010 |

This past weekend, some lucky, lucky lady was selected to live in the magical fairy land of unicorn joy forevermore when she was taken as the bride of Joe Francis, creator and chief executive raper of the Girls Gone Wild series.

Francis, who looks remarkably like the “You gonna be da wormface” guy from Squirm, opted to have a “civil domestic partnership” in order to pour some marriage out for our gay homies who can’t get one. Which, while certainly touching, rings hollow from the guy who pays drunken 17-year-olds a couple of t-shirts and Cuervo shots to flash their titties and lick on each others’ vaggy bits. I don’t know that this is quite the “gay-straight alliance” GLAAD has in mind.

In addition to getting some champion to fall for the “pretentious guy’s awesome-est excuses for avoiding marriage” handbook, Francis got that same champion to marry a man who has been accused of the following: child pornography, drug trafficking, sexual aggression against minors, tax evasion, filming minors in sexual situations, plying women with alcohol and drugs to get them to do sexual things on camera, brutalizing an LA Times reporter, and racketeering, which is not as cool as one would think, despite sounding like the criminal act of strapping on a jet pack and fighting Nazis for the heart of Jennifer Connelly. Also, one time, he gave Paris Hilton a cigarette carton of coke which she immediately shoved up her vagina. I mean, how do you not marry the shit out of that guy?

Tragically, men like Joe Francis will always find some sad fool to share their lives with. As long as assholes exist, pathetic/stupid/abused/martyrish/money and/or fame hungry affronts to womankind will be there to wear their rings. Three women have married Charlie Sheen, John Mayer gets monstrous amounts of ass, and I bet Zach Braff still gets plenty of pre-hipster freshman flesh. Whatever your brand, far too many ladies love a doughy-faced tool. Be it the “bad boy I know I can change” or the faux-sensitive pseudo-poet, for some reason, sad girls love being treated badly by men who come with giant flashing warnings. They should know better, but something keeps them from seeing it.

Like the Daytona Beach spring breakers who can’t stop taking their tops off, women like that are here to stay.

Normally, I would get high up on my soap box and rally women everywhere to stand up and fight the good fight. But time and an exorbitant amount of TMZ has taught me that as long as there are terrible Harry Twatters, there will be women who love them. That’s how it is. It’s always tragic, but until the government finally OK’s my Asshole Eradication Program, there’s nothing I can do. So, ladies, don’t marry douchebags. Don’t marry rapists. Don’t marry Charlie Sheen. I cannot help you if you will not be helped.

Edit: In no way did I intend to imply that Zach Braff and John Mayer are rapists. Pretentious creeperbators with faces of uncooked dough and tendancies to closetalk, yes, but not rapists. They are Douche Sauce Mild. Gross, but not dangerous.

Other edit: On the other hand, I can’t know what they do in their free time, and if a sorority girl dungeon is found on their properties, I demand to be called a visionary.

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