Scribe has recently learned, after all these years, that lover boy and oh so gentle and overly kind soul: Simon Cowell, has told the whole world he will NEVER get married. Scribe is sure that he can hear zillions of hears breaking all over the world. Unfortunately this is probably true since even mass murderers get marriage proposals in prison. Simon is just a little WORSE, right?

Well, anywhosie, Scribe has discovered WHY he has decided to never get married: no one would agree to sign his contract. Scribe’s secret spies have smuggled out a copy and, TADA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, here it is…

The party in the first part, otherwise known as Simon Legree Cowell, and the party in the second part… (only fill in first name since Simon from this point on will own your ass)… both agree to the following terms…

During sex the male in this contract will have the right to use the following terms:

“Every time God sees how poorly you use your sex organs, God cries.”

“You call that SEX? I call it abysmal and pathetic.”

“I’m sorry my dear, maybe it would be best if you either crawl back into the womb you came from, or drink a gallon of Draino.”

The female in the contract will ONLY be allowed to say:

“Oh, God, you ARE God!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“You’re like a sexual Van Gogh with the biggest penis of any man who has ever lived.”

“You’re my Daddy, my deity, my slavemaster…”

…plus do all the dishes, take out all the garbage, bring your master young sex objects for his insatiable hunger, do all massages, serve the perfect meal and, if the female person of the second part does not live up to these obligations to absolute perfection, the male party of the first part will have the right to humiliate the party of the second part for the rest of eternity.

(Note: this contract was pilfered from Lush Dimbulb.)