*TLDR: The Philly Locker Room Is Haunted

Slothman07 · (This post was last modified: 10-28-2020, 11:23 PM by PigSnout.)

Let me start this off by saying I’m not one of those crystal-powered, sage-burning, chupacabra-worshipping wahoos who believes in this kind of stuff; At least, I wasn’t before.

It all started last Wednesday, during my post-game cheesecake shower break. For those of you who are living your life in the dark ages, cheesecake shower break is when you take a fat wedge of cheesecake into a hot, steamy shower and do a little self-care. It’s like brushing your teeth, but for the soul. Anyway, I was eating my cheesecake with one hand, scrubbing my pits with the other, when all of the sudden the lights in the showers went out. I am a 6’ 6”, 260 lbs. wedge of empowered, female whoop-ass, so I wasn’t scared so much as inconvenienced; Scarfing cheesecake one-handed in the shower without getting it wet or soapy is tricky even in the most well-lit of circumstances. As I felt my way out of the showers and back into the locker-room, I saw an eerie, silvery-green light. I stared at it in disbelief as it gradually took form, and what a lumpy form it was; Standing before me, naked as the day he was born, was the founding father of flab himself: Benjamin Franklin. I started to say something to him, but what? As I struggled to find the words, he started jogging around the locker room, jiggling in all directions. Eventually I noticed he was launching a ghost-kite. As it took flight, I felt a howling gale pick up around me, as if we were in the middle of a wild thunderstorm. My gaze was transfixed on this balding lump of a man, frolicking about in his birthday suit with his kite shouting “Come on you electric bitch! Show me what you’re made of!” and cackling like a madman. I watched this scene for what felt like hours. Or maybe seconds. I don't know I’m bad with time. Anyway, suddenly there was this blinding flash of light, and ol’ Ben exploded into little sparks of light that quickly faded away. The wrinkly old jerk bag didn’t even have the decency to turn the lights back on for me.

TLDR: The Philly Locker Room Is Haunted, And Ben Franklin Is A Buttdouche.