The compromised second draft

I've got as much love in my heart as a thousand furry woodland babies. Two whole steps and one half step ago I had a love shaped hole in my heart; the type of hole that couldn't be filled with trifles and trinkets like gold, frankincense, and Jesus. Only love was able to fill the hole, the kind of love so thick and rich that a fork stands up in it, the Dennison's Chili or Campbell's Chunky of love. The kind of love that requires a raw power, a pure strength of will. Stovetop love.

In the absence of that sort of love, that striking combo of lust and affection, a Wendy O. Koopa Williams type of love will suffice. Not just any Wendy O. love, however, but the kind of Wendy O. love that wears a shaving cream bikini and shoves a sledge hammer handle up her, um... self? Not only will it fill your love shaped hole, it will make you a man, to boot. "Ah ha!" you say, "but it only took a revolver to fill the hole in Ms. Wendy's heart." To you I say, "Touché." For those blessed few of us, the R. Budd Dwyers of the world, it is possible to make love with a mere revolver, but for the bulk of us, those godless heathens like you and I, our genitals require nothing less than a sledgehammer. It is through blunt-force trauma that we satisfy our lust for love.