Damn, Tim, looking like somebody put ten different kinds of sex in a mechanical homogenizer and one type of sex came out the other end. Walking around here in those old wrinkly khaki pants with your big old wallet full of Subway cards in your back pocket. How do you expect any of us girls to keep track of what we're doing? I saw you pull that wallet out and I was like, "Oh my god, Charlene, do you see that? He keeps coins in his wallet!"
Well, I almost dropped a whole tray of samples. Then you took your glasses off to look into the microscope and ker-sploosh. I had to sit down on a towel. It was just so beautiful I started crying. Watching you swang that lopsided wallet ass around, showing off those New Balances. Like I know you've got three pairs, Dr. Tim. Ga-goosh! Got to wring those panties out after you leave the room.
This is inappropriate lab behavior. Wearing those blue button downs and your sweater vests like you are at a symposium about turning me on. Get my thigh twitching like is it just me or did I leave the nutating orbital shaker going? I need your tissue sample in my laminar flow cabinet if you know what I mean, Dr. Tim. I am going to find those proteins the hard way. Get me so hot I tipped a Dewar flask on this pussy and I want you to break them panties off with a hammer.
Dr. Tim you have got to lock down that ass. Me and the other girls are just trying to get our science done. But we can't think of anything when you come in here flashing those dirt brown eyes through those transition bifocals. Shaking off that rain like "Oh, excuse me, I forgot my umbrella." You want to check my umbrella holder, Tim? I might have left something up there.
Sometimes, when no one is around, I fantasize you start stripping off those suspenders and toss your blazer to the floor. Shake it, shake-shake-shake it, like a grease spot test using heptane to identify the organic residue. Yeah, you see that residue? You got my drip, Dr. Tim. That's my pink print. You know I got to put that on the samples right where I knew you'd find it.
I realize this isn't a professional work environment any longer and I just don't care. If you turn me down I am going to start crying and my teardrops are going to contaminate an entire set of experimental muscle tissue samples.
I'll never forget the day you said you wanted to get a little wild in the lab. You took off your jacket and while we stained agar plates you played Paul Simon's Graceland twice on your iPhone speaker. Oh my god, I never knew that album was all about sex!
The worst was the day you colored your hair. I can't stand my horny levels, Tim! It was insane. You went from that salt and pepper look to full on Dr. Eric Betzig. I was fanning myself, ready to pass out all, "Please fluoresce my proteins!"
I guess my point is, Dr. Tim, you can blame us girls all you want, but if you come in here looking like that you are pretty much asking for it. Take the wiggle out of those hips and dress a little more conservatively and maybe then we can talk about doing coed science.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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