...his man was still considered a "Man of God" went completely out the window. Sure, all his "companions" were of legal age and sound mind (except perhaps Brandine), but for a fella who stands up every Sunday in spreading the Holy Word to then five minutes later go sticking his dick in whatever so wife or teenager he desires is utterly fucked up.
Anyway, back to the story. To cut her sex romp with "Good-Fellow Flanders" short, he came, she laughed maniacally, she got dressed, he got dressed, he projectile vomited with guilt, she pissed on his carpet. Yeah, disturbing. But that's how Marge Simpson was now.
Next stop: Moe's Tavern. Marge drove her orange station wagon through the cold night. She wore a sparkling red dress, no bra, and only the skimpiest of g-strings. Easy access for all the drunken oafs. As she turned a corner in town, police lights flickered on the car behind her.
Marge pulled over, opposite the comic book store, with nothing but a sigh. Still partially drunk from an early night's drowning of wine (that she helped herself to at Flanders'), Marge knew what must be done. Chief Wiggum was on duty, and the only thing that liked more than doughnuts and cash bribes were sexual favours. Better yet for Marge, her hair turned the chubby guy on. Sickly, because they shared the same hair colour, Wiggum fantasized it as incest. And Marge would've dry-reached...