Poor Andy Kennedy. Recall, if you will, the Ole Miss basketball coach’s arrest last fall after being accused of assaulting a cab driver while shouting ethnic slurs at him. Yes, we live in a post-9/11 world, but you can’t go punching anyone named “Mohamed” in the face. 9/11 didn’t literally change everything. And though Kennedy vehemently denies the charges, according to Cincinnati’s WLWT NEWS (via FRIENDS OF THE PROGRAM), the whole ordeal has claimed a whole new victim: Mrs. Kennedy’s quivering vagina.
(The aggrieved couple, in happier, sexier times)
Indeed, Kimber Kennedy, Andy’s wife, has actually filed a countersuit at the cab driver & the valet driver who corroborated the initial charge, claiming among other things that the accusations had harmed the couple’s relationship - including their sex life.
(Kimber, if you were trying to figure out a way to get mentioned on SbB, mission accomplished.)
And though the suit has yet to go before a judge, we have a feeling what the Kennedy wife’s statement to the judge will be, below the jump:
“Good morning, your honor. As you now know, my husband, Adam Kennedy, was accused in the assault of a taxi driver named Mohamed Jiddou on December 18. He has since lost his joie de vivre, his compassion, and most importantly, his sexual potency. And I want it back.
“I know all the jokes about married couples not having sex anymore. Not us, your honor. We used to be the wildest, most depraved, monkey-f*cking-est couple this side of the Silicone Valley. Adam used to make Peter North look like Peter O’Toole. You wouldn’t believe baby batter he would unload on my face–I tried swallowing once and I nearly drowned.
“You see this book? This is the Kennedy Sutra. 66 positions that you haven’t even heard of, and we used them all. This one’s called the Ponderous Gardner. It involves two gourds and burying me upside-down, waist-high in the backyard. There’s a breathing tube, don’t worry. Anyway, you can figure out where everything goes from there.
“And now? Now? Now it’s just straight missionary, once a week. Usually he can’t even manage that; it’s about 90 seconds of trying to stick a marshmallow in a coin slot then he rolls over and cries uncontrollably. One time he tried to “fake it.” He deadpanned “I’m arriving,” then he spit in my face.
“This racism thing is killing us, Your Honor. Can you believe that he won’t even do reverse cowgirl because he’s afraid of insulting the Hindus? I swear to God. I even brought in our 19-year-old au pair from India to tell him she didn’t care. You’ve got to see her, Your Honor. Young, firm ass, zero gravity breasts, a vadge you couldn’t fit a midget’s pinky in, the questionable sexual morals you expect from a teenager who just moved across an ocean. She makes Lily Thai look like Lily Tomlin. He wouldn’t touch her. Or me while I touched her. Repeatedly. This is an outrage.
“Look at me, Your Honor. I may not be in my 20s anymore, but I look incredible. Your bailiff over there is hiding an erection as we speak, aren’t you?”
“Told you. Look. I’m used to getting filled up with 10 inches of Mississippi Mansausage on a nightly basis. I depend on it. I need it as a woman and a wife. I’ve even worn out my favorite dildo, this thing that looks like a dolphin and vibrates in two different directions. The motor’s so shot, even masturbation feels like work now. It’s unacceptable. I want my husband back, Your Honor. More importantly, I want his libido back. Back in him, and back in me.