“Yo Stacy Keebler, How’d you like to press MY shooting star? Holla twice, Jermaine”

As I submit to facebook, I chuckle out loud, adding a mental “checkmate, ladies”, lean back and stick a pen I find lying on the carpet into my mouth. I let it dangle there to represent the feather in my cap.

If Stacy Keebler thinks this cat-and-mouse game AIN’T going to end beneath my satin sheets on a wet spot, she’s living in a fool’s paradise. No woman with a working cooze could resist the craftsmanship of my words.

Crazy lust washes over me, a feeling I hope will never end. It ends immediately though, and is replaced with terror

because

Oh, crap.

The smell in my mouth, up in my head, is like tofurkey and farts and, unless my tongue has gone mad, lemonade powder. Mixed, and worse for the mixing. I am not the first roommate to chew on this pen.

SKUUUUULL MAAAAAAN!!!

(names have been changed because of copyright law)