Neighbor: “Crappy weather, huh?”
Me: “Yeah, it sure as Hell is.”
Neighbor: “Stepped in every gaddampt puddle tanight.”
Me: “Oh?”
Neighbor: “Yeaaaaaah. Went to the Mervyn’s sale. They’re going outta business.”
Me: “I hadn’t heard.”
Neighbor: “Oh sure, and wouldn’t ya know it? They were closed.”
Me: “That’s a drag, eh?”
Neighbor: “Yeaaaaaah. I really needed a new bra. I only got two and this one’s fulla cigarette burns. See?”
Me: ” … “
Despite his brutish, troll-like appearance, the Dribbler is an excellent model, able to hold unchallenging poses for an hour without tiring. Yes, he has more body odor and hair than a Musk Ox. Yes, he has 5:00 shadow by 9:15 am. These are all excusable and minor in comparison to the trait that gave him his nickname.
You see, unlike the Closet Perv, who gets off on being naked in front of young women, the Dribbler takes his work seriously and with great dedication. If only his body had the same attention span that his brain had. His second brain has a leak.
Not pee. Pre-cum.
Spidery threads of it can be seen dripping from his penis and puddling on the floor at his feet. The women in the class notice it well before the men do, but their incessant giggling soon catches everyone’s attention — including the Dribbler’s, who sadly excuses himself amidst a chorus of ego-shattering female laughter.
At first glance, the first year art student may assume the professor had brought a cadaver for the class to draw. Then the cadaver coughs, a miserable, cancerous cough that produces more than a few moths and dust. It is not a cadaver, but a former fashion model, driven to nude modeling in a last ditch attempt to get men to appreciate her faded glory.
Back in the 1970s, when boob jobs were still in their infancy, she rushed at the chance to get the operaion in hopes that it would increase business. Large breasts were big back then (excuse the pun). Just as she traded her first small sex toy for one with more battery power, she traded in her AAs for a pair of Cs.
Little did she know that being a surgical early adopter was not such a good plan. The 1980s came and the androgynous look returned. Small breasts were the thing to have. Now she is left with purple scars, creepy stretch marks and the appearance of having Tupperware bowls under her skin.
When making oatmeal, the required steps are:
Possibly the ugliest known human (certainly the ugliest person I’ve ever drawn) is the Closet Pervert. At only thirty-three, he looks closer to ninety-seven, owing to chronic masturbation which has sucked away his life force. With his greying locks, he resembles one of the Founding Fathers, but as no woman in her right mind would sleep with this panty-sniffing letch, he hasn’t fathered a thing.
During art class, the Pervert’s eyes never stand still. They are constantly looking under easels to see what color underwear the women are wearing. A bead of sweat forms on his brow if he spies some cotton and shortly after, he salutes the class with his miniscule wood and begins furiously stroking, unaware that the entire class is now vomiting.
Shortly after the trial, he changes his name and moves to another county.
