Hello all, and welcome back to another installment of Marry, Fuck, Kill, a game that is rigged so that only we 'Birds win. It's a metaphor for life, y'all. Now that your mind is blown, let's get into it by introducing the players: Dame "I Heart Tony Soprano" Derision and Countess "Where the Hell is Tom Quinn?!" auContraire, and they are hunting down Stringer Bell, Adam Carter and Don Draper.
This game's beyond the fucking game.
Countess auContraire elucidates:
FUCK: Adam Carter. His work schedule is too hectic for marriage and I'm too pretty to be collateral damage if one of his missions go south. It did not work out so well for the first Mrs. Carter. So delicious sexy sex with him whispering sweet Arabic nothings in my ear it is! An English spy speaking Arabic??!!! Good God, YES!!!
KILL: Don Draper. Sorry, Don, but you gotsta die. He's a badass for the '50s and '60s, but not nearly as badass as Stringer or Adam. Can I fuck him once or thirty times before I kill him, though?
Dame Derision waxes poetically:
MARRY: Don Draper. For reasons further explained in the next category, I have chosen the smooth and sexy, and probably the most obvious choice. If you have the gift of sight, that is all the justification I need. Furthermore, I can dig a man who was born to wear a Brooks Brothers suit, listens to Frank Sinatra and who appreciates good whisky. And, quite frankly, some of the modern men could take a cue from your style. Do I really need to say more?
FUCK: Stringer Bell. If my boy Omar hadn't have killed you off, you'd be up there in the Marry category. But the thought of becoming a widow and then needing to flee Baltimore as soon as your body hit the cemetery are my main reasons for turning down the proposal of one of the finest men to walk the Earth. So instead, I will choose you as my man-slave until The Baroness pries you from my bedroom chambers. (Avon was not as smart as you and I always was on your team, for the record.)
KILL: Adam Carter. I googled you. You're pretty cute. Unfortunately, I am not as up on my BBC watching as I should be. That being said, I have to choose you for the muerte for this round as I am not familiar with your character. My apologies, as I'm sure you'd be worthy of trying to prove me wrong.
Pour yourself a stiff one, light a cigarette and remember, you are okay.