Here’s Holly Madison in some wholesome looking dress, you know one you’d expect to see your grandmother wear to her husband’s company’s summer picnic with a Jello Casserole she made from scratch in the 1950s with a smile on her face. You know in a time when she’d be fucking the mailman, the neighbor, some guy who works at her grocery store, while your mom was in school and your grandfather was at work fucking his secretary, molesting kids in his little league, dragging black people behind his pick-up truck, or even meeting in back alley’s to fag the fuck out. You know a simpler time, when people’s sleaze was swept under the fucking rug, when everyone played the white picket fence middle american dream, but were still sleazing out behind closed doors and that’s a lot more than I can say about Holly Madison, someone who publicly dated an old man because he was powerful and could give her a career, so maybe she’d be better off dressing in a crotchless leotard with arrows pointing to her box, because that receptacle is really her only asset, it’s what got her everything in life, from those fake tits to her Luis Vuitton and her career, house, car, friends, hair, tan, and everything in her life is just a product of that, so she should be showin’ some fuckin love and paying a tribute to what got her where she is instead of distracting us with them tits.

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