Something was off this week, ladies. While I might not be as in-tune with the eb and flow of the universe as a kombucha-drinker, I do know when something’s not right. And then, right when I thought a storm might be, as they say, “a brewin'”… Tristan Thompson fucking CHEATS on Khloé Kardashian DAYS before her baby is due.
For the unenlightened, Tristan Thompson, also known as Tryst-an Thompson, has reportedly done some serious R-rated canoodling with several women that are not Ms. Khloé K. When the news broke, I found myself scrolling and scrolling through story after story, until it occurred to me: oh my god my contractions are six minutes apart.
The stress of it all was simply too much. Every headline, tweet, and text sent my body further into a hole of physical and emotional pain. Who would do such a thing? Why did you, ThompSatan, feel the need to motorboat another woman when you had Khloé FUCKING Kardashian? She’s flippin’ pregnant, too, so if you’re looking for great boobs… frankly you won’t find much better.
As my stress contractions grew closer together, I suddenly realized that Khloé wasn’t alone… because I was in fucking labor, too.
Khloé went to the hospital pretty much right after hearing of Thomp-sin’s sexcapades (kisscapades?), and I don’t blame her. I mean, who needs induced labor when you have a basketball bro that just wants to slam dunk betrayal on your heart over and over again? More than five women and counting (just like I was counting my breathing patterns in-in-out).
The videos of Thomp-scum were undeniably the hardest part. As I watched footage of him weave through the club in a white hooded-sweatshirt, I pulled my own sweatshirt over my eyes. When one girl screamed “Where’s Khloé???” at him as he made out with another girl, I nearly had a conniption. I needed an epidural, fast.
Aside from the public humiliation, universal disappointment, and rage of Kris Jenner, I think Thomp-scum should be forced to write a memoir titled, “First I Broke Your Heart, and Then I Broke Your Water.” It will be a heartwarming tale of a man who, in just two years, manages to impregnate and maliciously cheat on two women in the final trimesters of their pregnancies. No one will read it, but its pages will be used as fuel to heat the Kardashian’s mansion.
As I fantasize about such things, I am curled into a ball on my Twin XL bed, which I imagine is quite similar to Khloé’s at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio, where she has opted to give birth. While we both may be scared right now about what the future holds, I imagine that we are equally comforted by the fact that we soon birth new forces into our lives: Khloé, a lovely daughter, and me, a pothole of rage so big it could total your car.
In the midst of writing this article, Khloé actually delivered her baby. She graciously permitted Tristan Pondscum to visit the hospital. I guess it is his daughter, too. She’s just happy to be a mom, and I’m just happy to be a person that, instead of writing a paper, spent several hours reading “scandal timelines” on both CNN and Cosmo (the greatest news duo). But while her labor may be over, mine is, unfortunately, still cranking. I’m hours deep with no end in sight. Resenting Satan’s handymen ain’t no day job. Do you blame me?
Image via Caroline Zerilli