Once I saw her in the light of day, I suggested she might see a plastic surgeon.

“Listen, sweetheart,” I lisped, “Did you ever consider plastic surgery?”

Well, she turned on me.

It was awful.

I can see now why they used to name storms after women.

She grabbed my .38 right out of my armpit and proceeded to fill me full of holes.

By the time she emptied the special on that hot Saturday night, I looked like a rancid piece of Swiss cheese.

“Aw, why’d ya hafta go and do that baby?

This was my best dinner jacket. It only had one hole in it before. Now it has seven. I’ll never be able to wear it again.”

That’s the last thing I remember before I lost consciousness…