It’s
so friggin’ cold outside, I can’t believe it.
I
caught a snowman trying to get into my house, so he could warm his
snow-ass
up. He must have already frozen his snow-balls
off,
because I didn’t see
them anywhere.
I
did, however, spot a drunk—a
drunk who had pissed in
his pants. And
why?
Clearly … he did it for the body heat! 98.6 degrees of forced hot
water whiz-warmth, baby!
I
only hope he was close to home when he let his golden river run. My
guess is, once that wonderful liquid comfort changes over to britches
full of yellow snow, the downside to the pee-for-heat
plan becomes awfully apparent.
At
least
frost
bite doesn’t
leave teeth
marks.
I
don’t know about the whole pants-pissing
thing, but I have to admit, the cold has had me thinking some
thoughts I wouldn’t usually be thinking. Like, “I bet that fat
girl’s nice and toasty inside; if I let her sit on my face, I can
probably burrow in somewhere.”
Tell
the truth, you were thinking it too—even the ladies. Sounds
coozey,
doesn’t it? A nice warm womb, to snatch a snuggle?
Make
sure you don’t suffocate up there; I recommend using a snorkel.
Just point it out the way you came.
And
it’s so friggin’ cold outside, I’ve witnessed the surprise
return of something from the olden days, not
seen in these parts for years—the
furry muff.
Not the kind you stuff your hands in to keep’em warm—I’m
talking about the love-land
between lady legs
kind.
Okay,
they’re actually the same kind.
That’s
right, the wintertime girls around here have been so
cold, they’re all letting their pubic hair grow back. I know—you
never thought you’d see the day. Me neither—but the day is here.
All across the frozen tundra, idle razors are rusting, and fires
kindled from the all the surplus bikini wax are heating homes.
But
if the return of the woolly
bully is an evil
(and I’m not saying it is)—it’s a necessary one, lest all the
hot and juicy women we love to love, become nearly impenetrable
frigidbitches.
I say nearly
impenetrable because … where there’s a will, there’s a way.
And there’s always
a will …
I
know, I know …
cry you a river. The weather’s a little on the cold side—so
turn up the heat,
make love with your clothes on, and get over it,
you say.
Well,
here’s one more indication that we have a real, honest-to-God
situation
on our hands: my girl started swallowing
…
just to get something
warm in her belly. Trust me, there’s no way she’d be doing that,
if the situation wasn’t so …
well, sucky.
And
just because I don’t mind that so much (she calls me Hotshot
now) doesn’t mean
it’s not pretty friggin’ cold outside, all the same.
I
guess it’s just a matter of taking the hot
with the cold.
I’ll
try my best.
-Harlowe
Pilgrim
PS.
Don’t be telling the little lady about hot chocolate, chicken soup,
or anything else that would warm her belly up. I’m not looking to
introduce any competition.
Copyright 2013 Cock and Bull
Publishing, LLC
