Drew Fanart: Difference between revisions
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(Created page with "{{Note credit|This is a fictional joke story written by DaveTheUseless. Don't take it seriously, fellas.}} Drew Fanart was having a really bad day. He was bald, fat, 45 years old, and he lived with his parents. He had just finished eating his favorite dish, vasoline on toast, when he walked over to the window to retrieve his mother’s laundry from the clothesline dangling outside of his low-rent high-rise apartment. However, as he tilted his head to reign in the heart...") |
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{{Note credit|This is a fictional joke story written by DaveTheUseless. Don't take it seriously, fellas.}}
Drew Fanart was having a really bad day. He was bald, fat, 45 years old, and he lived with his parents. He had just finished eating his favorite dish, vasoline on toast, when he walked over to the window to retrieve his
He opened the door. They were a-waiting, red backwards baseball caps, brass knuckles, and all. A swing to the left! Drew Fanart had missed! He got back up off his back and up from the gravel, but it was too late. While he was laying down like an earthworm on its flabby little
He had been pantsed.
Drew Fanart drew a picture of the
Drew Fanart hung the picture on the clothesline at night. He shined his Camp Lazlo nightlight on it and drifted off to bed. Could this lovely little masterpiece of his be the moment he had always wanted? Perhaps it truly was—because, when Drew Fanart woke up, there was nothing going on downstairs. No commotion at all. It
Because after Drew Fanart opened the door and headed
With a set of youthful, dismembered nipples dipping into the
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