Blimpy and the Butterball Baby

Josephine is growing. Sure, she’s pregnant and that’s expected—but my god. She’s one sugar cube away from a full-blown double chin.

That’s my sister I’m talking about in the first paragraph—the obese pregnant one. If she ever got a hold of this journal entry my lungs would surely collapse after being sat on, so let’s keep this one under wraps.

The truth is I’m a victim of sibling abuse. Just recently I received the most painful purple nurple of my life after engaging with that bloated rhino.

I’m innocent. I was inspired by how she sweats melted butter after NASA -like lift offs from the sitting position, and because it’s apparent that she defeated the Hulk and ate him. Impressive.

So I thought up a new sitcom and made her the star. I called it, Blimpy and the Butterball Baby. I mean, what a gift of imagination right? Oh no. She lunged at me like a tuskless walrus, grappling my nipple with the pinchiest sausage fingers, and twisted with the violent intent to rip flesh.

How ungrateful!

The End

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