Your hand holding the pen says, “Wipe the smug-ass look off your face.” But as your arm raises to spoil this girl's flamer party, your conscience screams, “Come on dude, she’s like 11.” So you settle for an elementary-level wacky tongue. Weak.
So you immediately turn the bridge of her nose into a dick fountain, spewing mass amounts of DNA into the Flaming Ginger Lagoon.
The DNA in her hair. Get your mind out of the gutter.
