That Is Not Taffy

I picked up this guy who was tripping pretty badly, I think on acid.

He got in the car and asked if I had anything to eat.

I told him there was candy in the upper pocket of the cubby holder in the back.

A few minutes later he told me the taffy I had in the back was the best he’d ever had.

Knowing that I didn’t have taffy, I immediately turned around to look.

He had taken one of the feminine pads I carry in my car, and had started eating one.

I nearly drove off the road.

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That Is Not Taffy

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