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Tribulations: Part Penultimate

Penultimate, for those of you who don't read dictionaries for pleasure, doesn't mean the ultimate writing utensil. It means "second to last", as in this is the second to last comic of this story. Also, if this is the first Fuzzy and OJ comic you've ever read, then it likely won't make sense to you. Usually it's our fault if a comic doesn't make any sense, but this time it's your fault. This is my superb tactic for wooing readers; I blame them for being stupid. But you're not stupid. You're smart. And sexy. And rich. And you have big breasts. If these qualities all actually apply to you, please send me an email.

Most of the time, when there's a person in your life who suddenly makes you uncomfortable, you can just avoid them. The difficulty occurs when you don't have a choice to avoid that person, for example if you work with them, or they pay your rent for you, or just because they get you free beers. Especially in the last case, if a guy is buying you beers, then it doesn't matter if he keeps trying to put his dick in your ear, you're going to fucking stick it out (was that a pun? I'm too drunk to tell). The absolute worst person to develop awkward drama with is your boss. If you say "no way, Fuzzy, having a bad relationship with a live-in girlfriend is way worse", then it's your dipshit fault for letting some chick sucker you into letting her move in. And girls, well, if you're smart, you've never actually had a boss, because you've managed to sucker some guy into letting you move in with him and live off him. Anyway, I only ever have sex with girls, and I occasionally let them cook for me, but otherwise I live alone and if one of them gets weird, I feed her to an octopus. The only person I don't have a choice about sending to an aquatic demise is my boss, and that's only because I don't make enough $$$$ off of Fuzzy and OJ to quit yet. I would blame you assholes for not clicking on the ads enough, but I think my terms of service don't actually allow me to say "click on my ads". I love you Google. I really do. You're beautiful, Google. And your giant Googly cock feels so good pressed up against the inside of my cheek.

Fuck, I just ate an entire canister of Pringles in the last five minutes. Hello 900 calories. I guess I'll have to burn that off in the usual way: Eight shots of Jack. Because if you can't remember what you ate, then it doesn't count. Let that be a lesson to all you fatties. Next time you eat a three layer cake for a "snack", just beat your head repeatedly against a concrete wall until you forget what you ate. Problem solved.

I'm going to hell.


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