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 leastfrost 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.
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.
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