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George Costanza Doesn't Love Me You left me with a lap of microwave popcorn and a 2-hour series finale urge to urinate. I stare at your bald head & hairy back wishing I was your shirt 100% cotton; the lemon yellow stains beneath the pits of your arms to go with the toupee- sales ticket still attached from Susie's Hair Salon & Tanning. Excuse me George, but can I have your autograph, Why don't you join me and my parents for pork chops & peas? We're having Fig Newtons for desert? Take me to one of your movie premieres. Introduce me to your wife, kids seven & nine. I faithfully tune in to 180 episodes of you undressing every blond with your eyes. You prove your love with heart shaped boxes of chocolates. Shove 12 dozen roses in my face. The thorns catch on my eyelids. Where were you? I kept calling. Left message after message Did you receive my letters? I lingered at the front gate of your mansion waiting in a Chevy Nova as your wife slept peacefully in her cucumber face mask- as your children drifted in sugar plum dreams. Waited for you in a window seat of Melba's Pit Bar-B-Cue as you walked through the door in your red satin pajamas. You look different without your glasses, thinner in the blue bath robe I bought you for Christmas when we feasted on store-bought turkey. I basted your body with giblet gravy on the floor under the kitchen table while your wife took the kids to her mother's, when you pretended to be sick. As you heard her at the front French doors, the click-clack of heels on the finest marble flown in from Italy, you tossed me my shirt and shoes urging me to exit from the servant entrance. You shoved me in the bathroom of green aftershave, clear sticks of under arm deodorant, trash cans stuffed with maxi-pads and glow in the dark band-aids. I fuss with my shirt stained with your star-studded semen. Tuck underwear in the back pocket of my acid washed jeans and sprint to my car parked behind your forest green BMW you bought after box office blockbuster success of Pretty Woman. You don't love me George Costanza. You're ashamed to be seen with a fairy at the Emmy's. But you adore me when I'm ass naked in a hotel room of Red Roof Inn- when my mouth is gagged with leather and wrists are bound by handcuffs you borrowed off the set of Law and Order. You tell me I'm the one you love as your wife's away at another fundraiser and we lie together on your polar bear rug. A bowl of uncooked kernels positioned between our naked bodies. According to you, I'm the only man you will ever love.
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