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Don’t Fear The Queefer

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Picture this. It’s been a long day of tailgating. Your school finally won their rivalry game with that other school. You know, that opposing school full of douchebags. You’ve been drinking since 9 o’clock in the morning, and the only thing you’ve eaten is shit, tripping drunkenly down the steps of the stadium on your way to the bars. You rallied together after the win with your boys at your favorite watering hole and took about a half dozen celebratory shots while belligerently talking shit to the douchebags from that other school.

That’s when she steps into the bar. Let’s call her “Nicole.” The room seems to explode with light. It’s like your dank, musty watering hole has suddenly lit up like Thich Quang Duc. That chick you’ve been trying to bang since you took her to your semi last semester — remember her? There she is, in all her game day glory, walking up to the bar to flirt her way into a few kamikaze shots for her and the less dazzling cronies following behind her.

You slyly let the douchebags from that other school buy the first round. You clever bastard you — letting someone else warm up your lead. What a fucking closer. You patiently wait till the round has been bought, and she starts to look off toward other groups of people. You walk up to Nicole like you’ve partied with her since high school. She appreciates the diversion from the douchebags from that other school and is more than happy to talk to you about how shitfaced you were from all that moonshine you drank at the semi-formal you took her to.

From there, things snowball pretty quickly. One second, you’re giving her shit about her crooked eyeblack, the next second, you’re playing DJ Diddles with her cooter in the back of an Uber while the driver plays Jason DeRulo uncomfortably loud. Fast forward ten minutes, and you’re struggling to get each other’s clothes off, falling all over the place because your room is a filth hole of beer cans and gym clothes.

You’ve finally arrived at that gilded dream you’ve waited so long to reach. Nicole is on top of you, and you are on top of a pile of unwashed bedding and garments that smell not unlike post workout side crotch. You can see the pearly gates of heaven swinging open as you fumble around for the month old crinkly condom in your wallet condom. Just kidding, no one uses condoms.

One thrust, two thrusts, three thrusts, four.

Five thrusts, six thrusts, seven thrusts, queef.

The most deep-seated and unsuspecting of your fears has just been realized. Your white buffalo has just pussy farted on your dick. The next few seconds will define the rest of your interactions with this girl. Your gut instinct will be to freeze in terror — chuck that gut instinct and remember a few key elements:

Queefs are innocuous gusts of poon wind. They’re more harmless than the Washington Redskins, and they’re gone faster than a father’s pride when his son comes out of the closet.

Respect your efforts. You’ve spent the better part of a year tracking down this exact moment. Don’t let a puff from her pink knock you off your totem pole. Proudly plant your flag in her moon crater. It’s just goddamn American.

She’s probably self-conscious about her queefing. This puts you at an automatic advantage if you play it off like you get queefed on every day.

Remember who just queefed on you. Nicole, your white buffalo, your Moby Dick, your unsinkable ship has just been sunk. Think of that queef as the final breath of a beautiful beast, at the end of a year-long hunt.

Savor that windy moment.

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Corn-fed, southern-bred swamp donkey. Known to go full retard without warning.

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