Doug was a cold-swapper, known for his addiction to the musty foot-stink of Donald Rumsfeld.
Late night sock-raids were his thing. He'd lurch and shimmy through Donny's Fun-Palace, seeking ripe specimens. Into the hamper he'd plunge his greedy snout, inhaling essence of Donald's hot-togs after long days powdering the backsides of lobbyists.
What began as innocent shoe-duty and courtesy sniffs devolved into reckless sock-lifting sessions that found Doug heaving into zip-sacks, stashing his booted bounty 'neath floorboards. At night he'd silence the yowling shoe-poodles and get to work inhaling Donald's curdled heel-jam.
But Donny's no fool. He hired Glock-men to safeguard his precious foot-wraps. "Cease sniffing my socks, you deviant!" he raged. "Get help or get got!"
Doug got got alright. Pink-slipped by Donald, divorced by the wife, he spiraled into dumpster-diving outside Donald's estate. Huffing fusty gold-toes by moonlight, wanted by lawmen, Doug hit rock bottom fast.
Yet he remains, lurking in hedges, awaiting his next foot fix. His dealer? Donny Double-D himself, peddling ripe funk via careless laundry skills. Will Doug kick this twisted bro-scent addiction? Only time and tough sock-security will tell.