Okay, alright, so maybe I went a little overboard with my last post. I'll admit it was crude, profane and sexist. I'll even go so far as to say it was far beneath my normal standards and, believe me folks, my normal standards are pretty low.

But, honestly, what did you expect from something titled "Pussy Magnet?"

Not only were my readers outraged, the honchos of this site were deeply offended, too. That scabby fucker, Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this outfit, suspended me for three days, fined me a substantial sum of money and threatened to pistol whip me if I ever post anything like that again. His cohort, that rotten bastard Benny Jay, was also upset. He called me a disgrace to the blogging community and disinvited me to his NBA Draft Party and Poetry Slam. Even that low-life Jon Randolph, the guy that poses as the photographer for this site, was disgusted. He threatened to release some rather embarrassing photos he took of me at the Chippendale's Alumni Reunion party in 1983.

That wasn't the worst thing that happened, however. No, the worst thing was that my wife found out about the post and, man, was she pissed. I don't know who ratted me out, but I suspect it was one of her slutty girlfriends, probably Kathy Ivcich. She always had it in for me.

Anyway, I was sitting at my computer, writing a letter of complaint to the Swedish Dick Extension Company, when my wife confronted me. I had just typed in the words "Dear Sven" when she screeched in my ear. 

"Are you crazy! Have you lost your mind!"

"What is it this time, dear?"

"That crap you wrote in your last blog. I've never been so humiliated in my entire life."

"Which blog was that, angel? I've written several of them, you know."

"Quit being an asshole. You know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, you must be referring to Pussy Magnet."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about."

"I take it, heh, heh, you didn't care for it."

"I loathed it. Were you drunk when you wrote it?"

"I may have had a smidgen of wine."

"Liar!"

We carried on in this manner for a while and then things started to get ugly. The only way I could pacify my wife was to turn over the rest of this blog to her. She wanted to personally apologize to the readers of the The Third City. So, ladies and gentlemen, here's Mrs. Milo:

I'm Mrs. Milo and I want to say that I'm terribly sorry for that piece of trash my husband wrote. It's so nasty that I can't even bear to repeat the name of it. I don't know what got into him but I believe it was a bottle of Cabernet.
The whole blog  was nothing but a pack of lies. To be honest, he's not the stud he claims to be. In fact, he's a complete dud in bed. He knows as much about sex as he does about quantum physics. The only reason I married him was because I felt sorry for him. And that nonsense about his "God-given attributes" is just pathetic. At best, he's below average in that department, even on his good days.
I've already made an appointment with a marriage counselor and I'm checking into some sort of therapy. Rehab is not out of the question, either. Plus, I'm considering talking to a lawyer, just to see what my options are. Believe me, if I had known what I was getting into when I married him, I would have stuck my head in an oven a long time ago. God, what a loser he turned out to be.