She worries that she might have married the stupidest man alive. So she poses. She waits for enlightenment to penetrate his thick skull. She waits for blood to flow to his organs of generation. And meanwhile, this is what she thinks:

Listen, you fool. It’s not a stool. It’s not for sitting on in front of the fire. It’s all plushy! It would take sparks, and catch fire. It’s not for sitting on at all. That’s not why it’s there. That’s not why I’m here. That’s not why the bloody fireplace is here. You’re supposed to grab me and throw me face-down over the hassock with my ass in the air and… seriously, do I really have to spell it out for you!?!?

Artwork is from the cover of Sexurbia County.

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