Pee your pants

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After your little ordeal with your cellphone, help unfortunately arrived to save Papa's son and his dumb-ass friends. Papa swiftly apologizes to you for Beau's stupidity and hops in the ambulance. With sadness in your heart after Papa's departure, you took you and your limp .0000000000001 penne home. It's been a long day.

Flopping on to your crusty nut stained bed next to your equally crusty body pillow of Papa John, you begin to wonder what life would be like after marrying Papa. I mean, after you take down his wife and kids, of course. You pictured Papa John's gently caressing your skin and simulating your wiener on your wedding night. His thick fingers entering your pooper as you scream out for all your neighbors to hear. He would shove his arm so far up your rear, turning you into a puppet. Zooweemama.

You barely can control the growing mountain forming within your knickers. You began beating the ever-loving fuck out of your wiener. However, your actions were futile. The sensation only made you harder. With nothing else left to help him, he started thinking about Papa John's wife. Without a moment to spare, his peen retracts itself into his body.

You breathed a sigh of relief. With nothing else to do and no one to talk to, you turned on your T.V. You flipped through the dozens of channels only to see Papa John on the news. You turn up the volume.

"C.E.O of Papa John's, John Schnatter, was shown calling employees racial slurs this afternoon after taking his son and his friends to St. Oof's hospital."

You couldn't believe it. You didn't want to believe it. Your loving and gentle Papa wasn't racist. You watched the video on the news play. It showed Papa John visibly angry, with his face red, yelling at the African American receptionist. He was angry because his insurance doesn't cover stupid fucking kids who eat tide pods.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T TAKE MY INSURANCE? MY SON SHOULD HAVE BEEN COVERED!" He shouted.

Oh no. He's about to do it. You clench your eyes for what was about to come.

"THIS HORRIBLE HOSPITAL IS RUN BY INCOMPETENT......"

He did it. He said the n-word. Which is weird because you, the reader, could possibly be black yourself. If not, carry on.

It would be over for him. You knew in your heart of hearts that the media would shame Papa John until the end of time. He could lose everything he worked so hard for. His career. His reputation. It would all be over in one Thanos snap. The loving Papa you once knew could very much be unemployed.

This was all his fucking child's fault. If they didn't eat those tide pods, none of this would have happened. You knew you should of destroyed them sooner. However, the time you've spent with Papa blinded you from your truth objective. Now, it's all over.

Wait a minute. What if Papa had permission to say the n-word? THAT'S RIGHT! THE N-WORD PASS! If you say that Papa was given to him and he had simply misused the word.

You hopped out of bed, running as fast as you possibly could to your nut covered desk. There, you scribbled haphazardly a false N-Word Pass. You know that forging fake documents is illegal but you would do anything for Big Daddy's Succulent Cummies. You search on your iPhone 4 the closest news studio. In order to clear Papa's name, you needed prove that Papa had legal permission to say the N-Word. This has to work. THIS MUST WORK. After Papa sees that you saved him from public scrutiny, he's sure to open your asshole like a Walmart on Black Friday. You change into your epic gamer clothes and bolt out the door.

You're about to let it rip.

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