A strange woman is going to be rubbing her breasts in my face within a few days.
Don't worry; I'll pay her for it.
A purveyor of tits, my brother, turns a miserable 32 in a few weeks.
Here's a fun birthday idea:
Instead of putting candles in the cake one year, just jam miscellaneous shit into the icing.
And light it on fire.
"Why's this chair missing a leg?"
"Make a wish!"
When I was around eight, I cut my cake and had to tell everyone who I had a crush on.
I said "Leanne Badcock," and she ran out of the bowling alley, crying.
This would prove to be foreshadowing for how women react to my affection.
I'm not embarrassed about telling you the story.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I was ever into Leanne Badcock.
Even pre-pubescently.
1 comment:
Your brother is a purveyor of tits? Why did you not tell me this? I could have used his services in the years before my marriage.
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