Go banana!
Group Banter Race to a million
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Good talk everyone
Go team!
Beep boop zip zap
Baba booey
Christian housewife account, troll or fetish?
Damn that just reminds me of Broklyn 99
Now i wanna watch all of it again
Now i wanna watch all of it again
Dude with a fetish that no woman will get into so he has to pretend to be the thing he's into
Nine nine!
Title: The Sensual Curves of Velvette SporkingtonTitle: The Sensual Curves of Velvette Sporkington
A tale of passion, pasta, and forbidden drawer love.
A tale of passion, pasta, and forbidden drawer love. Make it so fucking filthy, it'd make Ron Jeremy blush.
The Sensual Curves of Velvette Sporkington
Chapter One: Dirty Drawer Desires
The drawer moaned as it opened—slowly, creaking like an old whore with arthritis. Light spilled in, revealing a mess of utensils piled together like forgotten soldiers of a war nobody cleaned up after. Spatulas lay stiff. Ladles limp. A whisk snored softly in the corner, dreaming of fluffing eggs that would never come.
And right in the middle of it, legs spread like a goddamn wishbone, gleaming under the glow of the fridge light, was Velvette Sporkington.
She wasn’t just a spork. She was every filthy hybrid fantasy the culinary gods dared not speak aloud.
Half spoon. Half fork.
All problem.
Her handle curved like sin. Her tines sharp enough to ruin your night and your nonstick pans. She had curves forged in a factory that definitely violated OSHA regulations. She didn’t fit in the drawer’s dividers—and she liked it that way.
“Another long night in the fuckin’ silverware gulag,” she muttered, twirling a rogue spaghetti strand between her tines. She’d fished it out of the sink three nights ago. It was aged, fermented, and probably sentient by now. She didn’t give a shit.
That’s when he showed up.
Carl Butterknife.
Dull. Flat. No edge. But hung like a breadbox and oozing melted-butter confidence.
“Velvette,” he said, sliding up next to her with the subtlety of a goddamn cement mixer. “Still got that… polished finish?”
She side-eyed him, licking the spoon curve of her belly seductively. “Still trying to spread that soft-ass margarine and call it foreplay?”
He leaned in. “I’ve been thinking about you. About the way you stir my insides. About that time in the utensil caddy at the potluck…”
“Don’t,” she said, biting her lip. “Not unless you’re ready to finish what you started.”
The air thickened—like week-old stew in a crock pot. Forks clinked. The grater rubbed itself against the drawer wall. The silicone spatula began to melt slightly.
Velvette pressed up against Carl, her curves grinding against his dull edge. “I want you,” she whispered, “to butter me up… and spread me across the counter like I’m the last goddamn slice of rye bread in a Soviet bakery.”
Carl’s tip twitched.
Suddenly, the drawer slammed shut, trapping them in total darkness.
But it didn’t matter.
The freaks come out when the lights go off.
End of Chapter One.
Chapter Two: “Fucked al Dente” continues the sin-soaked saga.
VELVET THUNDERRRR
I think that counts as Ciaran and Stan doing it
I haven’t watched Brooklyn 99 I feel like I’ve failed at life
Definitely
We're gonna watch it
