Last week, Riff Raff – the antibiotic-resistant herpes sore in white girl Cancun braids (aka that thing burning the innocence off your retinas above) told Katy Perry to put on her best butch Jessie J drag realness and took her out for a night of sushi and bowling. Katy Perry, clearly not giving a fuck about the CDC’s instructions to wait 30 days after her post-John Mayer flea-dip before exposing herself to another questionable crotch situation, agreed and they went out on a date. They went bowling. They had sushi. They posted a picture to Instagram so that future generations would know what a Spring Break cockroach standing next to the world’s thickest application of face spackle looked like.
For the sake of humanity, decency, and every anti-fungal cream in existence, that’s where it should have ended. However, when TMZ asked Riff Raff about making things official with Katy, he replied saying:
“I mean, who knows? Who knows where things might go?”
He also said he’s waiting for her to get back from Belgium (where he thinks she currently is) so they can go on their second date, which will probably either be burgers and go-karts, or pizza and laser tag. Of course, nothing says serious commitment like answering questions about the girl you think you’re dating while fondling the thonged ass of a random hoochie mama:
I know that Riff Raff is the poster child for freon abuse (for legal reasons, the state of Florida has him classified as a litter box) but something in his beady little bedbug eyes tells me he might actually really like Katy Perry. Which is a little bit heartbreaking, because there is no way she’s over her ex yet. She probably only agreed to the date because Riff Raff is a dead-ringer for John Mayer’s itchy-looking dick sores. Poor Riffy; it looks like you’re the raunchy rebound.
And if Riff Raff started mentally picking out china patterns after just one date, I think it’s safe to say we’ve found Taylor Swift’s soulmate.