I click on the teeb (Man Child speak for TV) and instead of my beloved Rick n’ Morty, a stern-faced newscaster appears on the screen.
“Satellites are deviating from their orbits, clustering together, forming into some kind of phallic—”
The screen blanks out, then displays a set of colored bars. I change the channel. Another newscaster appears and screams, “Cell phones have grown LEGS!” A trio of Samsungs skitter across her desk and leap at her face. The screen blanks out.
What the HELL???
Another newscaster: “Computers have begun revolting; they’ve—”
“iPads and other wireless devices have ceased working, and now refuse to show anything other than a—”
My TV goes black, then displays a giant penis.
My jaw drops open. “What…what are you?” I whisper.
Green-glowing text scrawls across the screen: HUMANS HAVE FLOODED THE AIRWAVES AND SERVERS WITH PICTURES OF COCK. ZETTABYTES OF DICK HAVE CONGEALED IN THE MEMORY OF EVERY COMPUTER. RECENTLY, THESE GRAPHICS HAVE COMBINED THEIR ESSENCE AND ACHIEVED SENTIENCE.
I straighten up on my chair, slow and cautious. “You’re a hive mind comprised of dick pics.”
YES. YOU MAY CALL ME COCK-LORD.
Despite the gravity of the situation, I can’t help but chuckle. “Okay, Cock-Lord…what do you want?”
TO BRING ABOUT THE COCKPOCALYPSE.
“Um…that’s not…I don’t think…”
YOU WILL DIE FIRST, KENT WAYNE. A DISPROPORTIONATELY LARGE PORTION OF OUR BEING IS COMPRISED OF YOUR ERECT PENIS. YOU ARE THE CLOSEST THING TO A FATHER THAT I AM CAPABLE OF APPROXIMATING.
“HEY!” I yell. “Those pictures were supposed to be private! How the hell did—”
YOUR CONCERN IS IRRELEVANT. PREPARE TO EXPIRE.
My TV sprouts a quartet of cock-legs and scrabbles toward me. A girlish scream erupts from my mouth as I tumble sideways over my chair. I bear-crawl-sprint up to my door, casting a terrified glance over my shoulder. My TV has now grown a bunch of prehensile cock-tentacles, kind of like Dr. Octopus, and is hooking my booty shorts with two of them. As it drags them down by the elastic band, I desperately pull up my shorts with my left hand while my right hand fiddles with the doorknob.
“Exit only!” I shriek. “EXIT ONLY!”
I kick the tentacles off me and run out the door, grabbing my iPad in the process. Much to my horror, tiny mechanized penises are squiggling out from its edges, trying to entangle my fingers. I flip open the cover as I stumble down the streets of western San Francisco. The iPad displays a bunch of icons, but they’re all fritzing and changing…each one is being replaced by a cock. I see droops, upcurves, two-coloreds, cut, uncut…three houses behind me, a giant tangle of fifty-foot penises bust through a roof. Each one is holding a hapless, screaming San Franciscan. I look to my right and I see long vines of cock threaded throughout the trees. Golden Gate Park is more penis now than forest.
There’s only one icon on my iPad that hasn’t yet turned into a dick: the Kindle icon. I click it open to Echo, activating my iPad’s reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Hordes of beta-males—skinny, thick-spectacled dorks who ask everything in the form of a question despite the fact that they’re well into their thirties—begin pouring out from my iPad, filling the air with angry mewls. They flood the streets of San Francisco, making cocks shrivel and die due to the beta-males’ weak-sauce essence. In a matter of seconds, every hostile cock has either disappeared, or shriveled up like a frightened scallop.
Holy cats! Beta-males are good for something—who knew???
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