The halcyon days of jumping into your rusty Impala with your teenage bride and driving off to Vegas to get married by Black Elvis at dawn in Vegas are soon to be forever gone.
My buddy John is an odd guy. Extremely attractive, charming, well-groomed and well-off, he met his bride when doing a search on the internet using the key words “Black Christian Virgin”. He found a page, put up by the girl’s own brother, where his future wife solicited from Ghana for a wealthy American husband. He then paid a dowry for her, and they were married. Over the last few years, he’s funneled hundreds of thousands of dollars into Ghana as a result, usually with no actual return, only photographs of the bus service he owns, or the mansion that’s been built by the family for him there.
You may be old and impotent. Your belly might hang over your pants like an engorged, hairy sack. But you gots the moneys, which means you gots the wimmins. Just remember to divorce your trophy bride before she puts that pick through your brain, because the alternative — signing divorce papers entombed within the cold, oblivious earth — is more trouble than its worth.