Camoflage Ken
Camobag doesn’t really have the more spectacular giveaways we associate with scrotological poopy poo.
But then you look into those eyes. And you realize the doucheyness that lurks beneath the surface. It’s what makes Camo into the stealth douchescrote that he is.
But oh sweet Sarah.
How your eyes taunt me with that perfect sweet and sour delight. A wholesome grad student on the outside during the day. Willing to dress up like an Armenian weightlifter and tickle my underarms with a vibrating kumquat at night.
Like the great, unheralded classic teen sex comedy from the mid 1980s, Malibu Bikini Shop, I would make your army bikinis out of water dissolving stitches, then enroll you in the beach race just to watch hilarity ensue right before the closing credits.
