It’s Thursday night and you’re fucking thirsty. You and your bros have three slam pieces over to pregame
to your new power hour DVD. While punishing that case of Natty was
fucking amazing and the tracks to Pound Town were no doubt laid,
there’s a problem: you’re out of fucking beer. Immediately, the fat
girl the hot slam pieces insisted on airlifting in notices. “I thought
this was a pregame! I want to drink!!” As every bone in your body is
aching to ask her what’s it like to be the World Famous “Tub Girl,” you
stop yourself – sure it would be fun as shit to make that fat girl cry,
but if she leaves, her friends, who actually have a purpose in life
outside of eating every living being, will leave too. You settle down
and weigh your options. You could drive to go pick up some more brew or you could do what any bro in this situation would do: call your bitch.
You scroll through the names in your phone, passing hazy entries such
as “Ass=nice,” and “Big Tits Starboard” until you finally find his
name: “Bitch.” You dial the number and before you even hear a ring, he
picks up the phone.