I might have let it slip among my friends at the Bare Burn that I nicknamed my friend “Coke Can Dan.”
I might have said, “I call him Coke Can Dan” but his real name is John so you better not call him Dan.
And they were good about it.
They never called him Dan.
But there we were at the Bare Burn, and literally all my friends were making Coke jokes.
Honestly, it didn’t bother Coke Can Dan.
He’s used to be heralded at parties and the like by women, much like myself, who can’t seem to keep their mouth shut about getting STUFFED!
Sometimes I wonder what it must be like, to have an appendage so big it needs its own zip code.
When lubrication isn’t a suggestion but a NECESSITY.
I joked with Coke Can Dan and told him that my lady parts could comfortably accommodate something half the size of his parts.
And in a way, that’s true.
When it comes to sparkling beverages, I’m more of a Red Bull kind of gal than a Coke Can kind of gal.
Of course, I’m being converted.
You all may get a giggle out of this post and wonder, silently, if I’m walking all right or if I have to step gingerly.
The answer is I can walk just fine, but I’d probably benefit from sitting on an ice pack.