So here we are, in a tag team flame match.
For those of you unfamiliar with King Martini (or with puffed up, metrosexual clowns more generally), a short introduction will set things straight. So to speak.
In listening to one of his inane warbling and chirping marathons on Spreakr (should a lapse in judgment take one down that dark path), one would think the King believes he has more subjects than he has toes. Painted toes, I might add—a fact that explains both why his better known handle is Poofer and why his current squirt-tart is rumoured to be able to slap that Valentino mustache off his face just by unzipping her fly and swinging her bony hips around like an anorexic ballerina on shard. But more about Dove's penis in a moment.
Do not be fooled, folks. King Martini is anything but regal. No regent woos a future queen at Starbuck's, no matter how many cigarettes he's willing to give her over the course of twelve minutes. Martini is no king. He is a barfly barman who, at the end of the night, nurses a cocktail (or cocktails a nurse—the accounts vary) while counting his nickels and dimes, hoping that this night is the night he'll finally be able to bot his way into Fortnite. Or, at the very least, win a game of Pong. We can only wish him luck. Or even a good fuck.
Which brings me to Dovey, Mistress of Camel-Flavoured Condoms, Missionary to those heathens unfamiliar with the glory of the Missionary position. What is a gal to do when she frowns upon abortion and her two-bit beau would rather die than sport a rubber? The obvious answer, of course, is that she can wear the latex herself. She has the equipment. If only she could use it appropriately, Martini would be mercifully silent for a spell.
And what of nursing? Nursing requires the ability to tell the difference between Gaviscon and Gabapentin, an ability she lacks given that her nursing experience is limited to playing an NPC in the hospital level in
These two lovebirds have chosen to make their romance the stuff of bad reality TV. The best one can hope for is to find the damn remote before Martini pops the question and Dove pops a damaged vein.