“It’s hotter than a fifteen man circle jerk in a poorly ventilated makeshift coatroom.” Oscar fanned himself with a folded up newspaper. It was very efficient, because it was constructed properly.
The secret to a good paper fan is to put in as many tight folds as you possibly can, the closer the better. This takes time and patience. You’re looking for firmness, as opposed to flimsy. As is true with all things, integrity is your best friend. Oscar’s hand held fan had over seventy-five pleats, and when dry, it can support an empty pint glass, or something of equal weight, 5.3 oz., like a medium sized robin.
Fuckface nodded, while really thinking, that Oscar is pretty succinct, and borders on inappropriate oversharing in a sneaky manner. It is said that Fuckface was given his name at the immediate point of birth. One look at his face and it was certain. Fuckface. In that, all his features were all over the place and not where they should be. His ear where his nose should be, his eyes on his cheeks, and his nose just below his mouth. It was hard to disagree, especially with all the white blotches resembling drops of sperm.
Despite all his faults, he was proficient with self-deprecation. Not knowing exactly how to respond, he said, “You can say that again.”
Two things you must know about Oscar: one, he’ll do anything you tell him to; and two, he was stupidly literal. Once, as a child, he was encouraged to play in traffic. Sure enough, one emergency room visit later, he broke the bridge of his nose so bad that his brows and forehead collapsed over his eyes. Not many people know this, but behind his back, some cruel people call him Fuckface Jr. Perhaps, this is why they are the closest of friends.
“It’s hotter than a fifteen man circle jerk in a poorly ventilated makeshift coatroom.”
Fuckface knew if he repeated himself, this round could go on for a good spell, so he did. “You can say that again.”