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I just body checked Joe Jonas’s hotter, beefier, and more masculine looking older brother.
“Did you just get a bath, little buddy? You smell so good, you handsome little tater tot,” he coos at him.
Menacingly, I use his shirt to pull him closer. It’s a weird move to make, it feels very wild-west-saloon-fight—which isn’t my usual style of aggression—but it serves to help me stay on my feet while yanking him around like he’s the puppet and I’m the master. Or at least it would if he weren’t so damn tall.
“What would you rather I say? Shazam? Boom shaka laka? Voilà?”
“I mean, a simple yeet would have sufficed, but boom shaka laka is a solid choice as well.”
“Listen, coffee maker, I know you think you’re the shit because you’re bougie as hell, but let’s keep it real. You have one job—to make coffee—and, bitch, right now you’re sucking at it. You should be ashamed. What would all the other coffee makers have to say about your attitude?” I growl as I try for the hundredth time to make this damn machine work.
