Meg Griffin Seeks Boyfriend l The Jim Galaxy

Meg Griffin Seeks Non-Loser, or Loser

Meg Griffin Hi, fellows, boys, people with 2-D peckers, my name is Meg, though my horrible family refers to me as the Abortion That Couldn’t. My friends have never called me attractive, but luckily my three friends are themselves so hideous that I look almost Minnie Mouse-esque in comparison. To start, my creators (may they roast in hell, or Providence, Rhode Island, but I repeat myself) bequeathed to me only one curve, an unforgiving oval that begins at the tip of my head and draws a wide arc that does not stop until reaching my webbed feet. Then they saw fit to equip me with a round woolen hat that at this point I am afraid to remove, as who knows what wildlife has incubated within its damp, uncombed environs. I could wear contact lenses, but, hey, why let up on the Extreme De-Makeover of Meg?

Let’s just say this: I lost my virginity to Jimmy Fallon, the same guy who continues to have sex with his own hair. Or, better, let’s say this: My prom date was the family bipedal dog, Brian. It was not so much that a canine is known to be Man’s best friend, not a girl’s, but rather that Brian’s favorite chum is my dad, Peter, who once shot me, his eldest child, with a gun, mind you, not a dirty look – to say nothing of the fact that Brian likes to quote William Blake while making love, and I feel very uncomfortable mixing religious mysticism with carnal acts done on all fours. Or, even better, let’s say this: I look and act like a lesbian, but am wired so that I will never see the point of rug munching, though it does serve the common good by keeping Rosie O’Donnell at bay. Yes, guys, in a nutshell, I have kissed a dog and watched my slut mother, Lois, make out with a teenage lesbian.

There is a boy – his name is Neil Goldman. He has the required squeaky voice of a super nerd and the pockmarked face of Tommy Lee Jones coupled with the former college roommate of Al Gore’s ability to pursue his prey to the end of time, as witnessed in the movie The Fugitive. Neil is so in love with me that he once wrote the words “Neil and Meg TLA” using his own pimple puss.

But I want someone better than Neil, or worse, depending on your definition of a loser. I would settle for a Jai Alai player addicted to meth and daytime soap, or a French author of a book entitled Crossbow Suicide: The Untold Story, or a Goth kid who dresses in a white tuxedo. I want a boy with the courage to peel away my knit hat and wrestle to the death whatever creature may spring forth in all its oily rage.