Creamy Puma


Saturday night, and it seems we’re all talking at once:

“You guys didn’t care about me. It could have been a serial killer or werewolf and neither of you came running. You didn’t even ask!”
“Well, it’s the boy who cried wolf.”
“Yeah, you are a little twitchy. Y’know, just another scream in the night…”

“Women see this pretty face, then the shirt comes off and they either smile and go ‘Ooh, furry,’ or they run screaming from the room…”

“…and he stands there, leaning against the doorframe, groaning — ‘ohhhh, ohhhh‘ — and I’m patting his back and he yells, ‘The marriage is off! Oh, hey, did you know it’s snowing in Colorado right now?'”

“You want some Nair with that?”

“… a giant, mocha, grande–”
“I swear, he was dead, and then I heard him weeks later, downstairs, doing, you know…”
“… big-ass, chocolate, supersized–”
“Wait –! Wait a minute! If you were a ghost and you came back, you’re telling me you’re going to come back to a basement in Danbury just to masturbate?!”
“…latte, creamy–” a glance at Nitram’s sneakers “–puma!”

*crickets*

Then everyone bursts out laughing —
“What the — what the fuck is a creamy puma?!”
“It’s gotta be some kind of sex act!”
“Whipped cream on a pussy!”
“Porn!”
“These are Nikes! Ah, jeeze, this is going to be another one of those ‘Why don’t you just jerk off’ moments.”
“Oh, okay, Mister Blowfish of Peru!'”
“I’m leaving now…”

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