Boris’ mom had that look in her eyes again, then came the fury.

“Boris your boobs are stuck to the dinner table again!”

It was a typical Friday evening in January and Boris’ boobs were drenched in sweat. Then just like clockwork he reached for the creamed corn and his boobies got stuck to the glass dinner table. Try as he may but there was no release from that fierce grip of the dinner table.

Boris began crying like a leper in a wind storm. Boris’ brother walked into the room with a spatula and a spittoon.

“I don’t want the spatula!” Boris declared with his mouth.

His brother shoved the spatula under Boris’ boobies while his mom poured the spit from the spittoon under his boobs for lubrication. Boris and his knockers became free from the evil table but Boris was pissed, “It’s not quite all that fair that my jugs get glued to the table when all I wanted was the goddamn creamed corn!”

Then Boris proceeded to belch the alphabet. “Can you hand me the mashed potatoes?” Boris axed.

“Get it yourself,” his brother said.


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