Fuck: Go for it. But just so you know, he refers to oral sex as "going to FlavortownTM."
Marry: Have fun picking out the menu with this guy. He’ll demand that everything be covered in Donkey Sauce, gesture to his crotch, and then laugh maniacally and say “we’ll be right back on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives” to nobody in particular.
Kill: NO! We need this man. Who else is going to keep the bowling shirt industry alive? Who else is going to still use the phrase "that's money"? You? C'mon, you couldn't handle FlavortownTM if it came up to you and looked you right in the wraparound sunglasses.
Fuck: It's like fucking butter. Sorry -- misspoke. It's like fucking on butter. Because that's what she feels like. Like a human being soaked in butter. Oh, and she also screams the N-Word when she climaxes, if that’s your thing. Please don’t let buttered racism be your thing.
Marry: This is tough. On the one hand, the wedding would be catered to perfection. On the other hand, she will demand to write her own vows, which will include the N-Word a minimum of 30 times. She's a real romantic.
Kill: Listen, if years of swallowing whole sticks of butter haven't killed her yet, whatever you have in store for her and – wait, tell me more about her deep-throating butter sticks.
Fuck: Given the alternatives, this seems like a no-brainer. And go ahead, it’ll be amazing. But just know that Salman Rushdie gets to watch in the corner from behind a pillow fort, occasionally saying “Hmm,” in way that can imply he’s either impressed or disgusted.
Marry: Yes! Of course. SHE IS A DREAM. While thanking everyone for coming to the wedding, she’ll say “pack your knives and go” and it will be adorable. Hold on to this one. Hold on forever.
Kill: Seriously? You have the chance to remove the other two from the earth and you went with the one with nothing objectionable about her? C’mon, send those other two to the great big FlavortownTM in the sky.