Reverend Conehead
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I knew she was up to something. She had been too quiet lately, but my telepathic abilities sensed that something was up. So I snuck over to her house and sent in a little surveillance mechanical fly with tiny cameras. Sure enough, she was in her basement with several voodoo dolls of Cowboy players, messing us up toward the end of the game. Without Amber stabbing needles into her dolls, Cincy never gets that TD or the two-point conversion. It was right after that when I finally managed to sneak in and knock out her annoying roommate. Then I rushed into Amber's basement. There was a look of panic on her face when she saw me. She knew she was caught. I tackled her and then locked her hands behind her back with handcuffs. "You ain't going anywhere near those dolls, sweetie," I said. I pulled those stinkin' voodoo devices away from her and put them on the other side of the room.
Amber started acting like the handcuffs turned her on, or maybe they really did, you can't be sure, but I didn't budge. "Come here, my sweet," she said in a sexy, sultry voice. I ignored all of her hit-on attempts, and we watched the rest of the game with her yelling out shriek's of frustration at every good play the Cowboys made.
Finally, when Maher was lining up for the field goal that could win it, she lunged off the chair and picked up a needle in her mouth, trying desperately to get it over to the voodoo doll of Maher. I blocked her path. "Not this time, toots," I said in a stern voice. "You've lost this one, darlin'."
"What is this, a B movie?" she demanded. "You're not Humphrey Bogart, and I"m not your girl. You don't get to call me these sweet nothings."
"Well, that's just tough, honey, darlin', toots. I've won this time."
"I had a lot of money on that game," she protested. "How could you do this to me?"
"It was easy, baby," I said. And I left.
Amber started acting like the handcuffs turned her on, or maybe they really did, you can't be sure, but I didn't budge. "Come here, my sweet," she said in a sexy, sultry voice. I ignored all of her hit-on attempts, and we watched the rest of the game with her yelling out shriek's of frustration at every good play the Cowboys made.
Finally, when Maher was lining up for the field goal that could win it, she lunged off the chair and picked up a needle in her mouth, trying desperately to get it over to the voodoo doll of Maher. I blocked her path. "Not this time, toots," I said in a stern voice. "You've lost this one, darlin'."
"What is this, a B movie?" she demanded. "You're not Humphrey Bogart, and I"m not your girl. You don't get to call me these sweet nothings."
"Well, that's just tough, honey, darlin', toots. I've won this time."
"I had a lot of money on that game," she protested. "How could you do this to me?"
"It was easy, baby," I said. And I left.
