Lincoln lifted the whipped cream canister and shook it. The canister said to shake it thoroughly, so Lincoln shook and shook and shook, until he was sure everything was well-mixed. Then he shook it a little longer, to be extra certain.
Looking down at his body, Lincoln wondered if he could pull it off. He remembered that movie with the whipped cream bikini. Would anyone really want a whipped cream speedo?
They’ll have to take one, whether they want it or not, he thought.
Spraying his nethers, he was immediately shocked by the cold of the canned whipped cream. It chilled, causing things to shrivel inward. Why anyone would do this is beyond me, he thought. But needs must.
As he finished the front, he then turned to the back. How will I get there? He twisted as much as possible, and sprayed.
Just as he got one cheek covered, the canister ran out of cream. He reached over the to the table and grabbed the second can, started shaking. As he did, some whipped cream detached itself from the front, exposing him. Damnit, he thought.
Once it was well-mixed, he finished the back, then re-applied to the front. Everything properly covered, Lincoln gave himself one more look-over. Covered and ready, he thought.
Lincoln walked to the door and opened it. He walked out, his whipped cream speedo on display, white against his pale skin.
Lincoln’s parents, sitting on the sofa, looked at him askance. His brother offered a pretend gagging. The dog whined.
Lincoln grinned, and basked in the attention.
“Lincoln, honey?” his mother began.