Congratulations Sultry Forest Animal!

Everything about you screams sexy, from your perfectly formed fuzzy cartoon boobs to your pouty, exaggerated lips to your giant hyper-expressive, too-large eyes.  If you were a person, we'd be on you like stink on a hog, to use an offensive, sexist, and normally inappropriate phrase, but you're not a person.  You're a cartoon forest animal, one of the sexy ones, similar to the hallucinations we mentioned on Monday.  But unlike the hallucinations we mentioned on Monday, you're not a hallucination.  You're real, and you're moving from the woods of Vermont to New York City this Saturday.

As soon as you get off the bus, you're gonna be real popular real quick.  A modeling agent will approach you (modeling agents spend most of their time hanging out near Greyhound stations) and sign you up for a contract immediately.  By the end of the day you'll be on the front cover of "Fetishes No One is Really Comfortable With," pouting at the world with those big cartoon eyes.  It'll be your first day in the big city and, hands down, your best.

Over the next few weeks you'll acquire basic life skills, learning English, figuring out how money works, berating people in the service industry, and so on.  Before you know it, you'll be hopping from coke party to coke party, trading sexual favors for photo shoots and drugs, developing a pretty serious drinking problem and losing all the lessons about bestial grace and fury that the forest imbued on you.

We'd claim that it's tragic, but the reality is that you'll be self-aware for the first time in your entire existence, so it's actually a pretty even trade.  Sure, you'll end up blowing some creepy guys with mustaches for reasons that, later in your life, will seem patently ridiculous, but when all is said and done you'll be rich as fuck.  Even if you never work again, you'll be set for life.  Not bad for a sexualized cartoon beaver.

Congratulations Sultry Forest Animal!

Congratulations on Picking Some Cotton!

You be at da club witchoo shoe string showin’ and a dub fat beat and da drinks be flowin’ when a fly ass shawtie in a top walk by and yo jaw drop down and yo dick hit the sky so you go up to her and talk to her like a person because you’re a fucking adult who sometimes talks like a retard in public places.

“Hey,” you’ll say.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

She’ll know what that means.

Fifteen minutes later you’ll both be out of the cab and into your apartment.  Her hand will be resting on your crotch.  Her lips will be pursed by your ear.

She’ll murmur.

“I’m on my period.”

You’ll move back from her slightly for a moment.  Only for a moment, however, because once you move back slightly you’ll take in just how incredibly hot she is and you’ll speak without thinking.

“Cool.”

You’ll reach down and, her hand guiding yours, graze her panties under her skirt.  They’ll be thick white cotton, so heavily folded upon itself over her skin that it will feel like she’s some sort of alien creature.  She’ll lean into your hand slightly.  It won’t quite be a hump.

She’ll lead you to your own bedroom with only the most furtive guidance, leaning your body around corners, pulling and pushing you into your own spaces.

When she gets you to your bedroom she’ll say two things to you:

“Do you have condoms?” she’ll murmur.

You’ll breathlessly exhale.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a dark colored towel?”

This question will give you pause.

Thirty minutes later your mind will be reeling.  You’ll be laying next to her, jizm filled condom thrown on your bedstand, atop a paper towel.  She’ll still be laying on the towel, smiling, satisfied.  Your eyes will be locked open.  Your nose will be filled with the steely odor of blood.  You’ll look at the back of her head, trying to will it into focus.  The shape will remain unaltered: an insubstantial dark mass.

Congratulations on Picking Some Cotton!