The argument that I've heard the most whenever I tell people
that I'm going to bag the Slayer is, "But, for the sake
of argument, Rossman, what if Ms. Summers eventually grows tired
of you and starts bitch-slappin' you around every night like
the weak and pathetic rag doll that you are?" To which I
always have to explain that the probability of a chick so fine
as the Slayer actually growing weary of me is pretty small. The
odds are around 87 in 100.
But, for the sake of argument, if she ever does decide that
I'd make a better substitute for a red-headed step child and
she starts to pound me I can thank Christ that at the very least
it'd be a quick death. You see, most women do end relationships
with me by pounding my head into oatmeal, and I am in fact a
total wuss. So I just figure that if I'm going to die by the
hand of a pissed off ex-lover the honors might as well fall to
the hottest and strongest woman that I could ever find. That
would be Buffy.
Here I am in
one of my famous dream sequences with Buffy. Even in heated,
passionate tonguing I have to wear my security hat. It just makes
me feel more manly. Well, in all honesty a decent Pina Colada
has the same effect.