As I walk Bitefighter—my loyal buddy and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire—through the park, I sing the Taco Song around a delicious mouthful of cheese, beef, and pico de gallo:
“Taco for you and taco for me, we like to eat tacos under big-ass trees…”
Bitefighter raises his snout to the sky, and sings along with me: “Rowfaroo mcbarksies arf rowf. Arfaroofarowfa arfskies barko mc-orf.” (Translation: “Tacos make me happy cause they’re made out of cheese, glory in the nomskies as we walk down the street!”)
I reach into my bag of mini-tacos and throw him another one. “Good verse, buddy!” He catches it in his mouth and scarfs it down. I jam another one into my chompers—OMNOMNOM—and revel in the burst of meaty cheesies that floods my palate.
Suddenly, we hear a cloying, affected voice sound from behind us: “Oh. My. God. Check out THIS loser! Strolling around with no shirt and booty shorts, eating cheap tacos, and talking to his mangy-ass mutt! Puh-LEASE!”
I turn around and lock gazes with three socialites. They’re sporting $100,000 handbags and all manner of sweatshop-borne accoutrements. Their hands on their hips, and they’re smirking like some kind of TMZ-version of Malfoy, Goyle, and Crabbe.
“Nothing wrong with booty shorts,” I say around a mouthful of taco. (It comes out as: “Nuffink wrong wif boofy shorth.”)
The three ladies (I hesitate to call them that, but for the sake of brevity I will) howl in laughter, and I can tell that they’re forcing it so they can imply I’m truly deserving of ridicule. One screws up her eyes and adopts a deep, dunce-like voice.
“FUFFING WRONG FIF BOOFY SHORF! DURRR!!!”
The three of them crack up again. I gulp down the rest of my taco and say, “Enjoy these few short years where your opioid addiction hasn’t yet consumed your minds. Because soon, you will be driven from the arms of your coke-snorting, commodities-fraud-peddling husband and onto the predatory penis of your soulless tennis trainer.”
Their eyes go wide and they shriek in rage. Bitefighter and I turn tail and run. Mwahahaha! Imma last word warrior!
But wait: a motor sounds behind me, and I turn around and see them chasing me in a PT Cruiser. One of them stands through the sunroof and shoulders a pink carbine, obviously modded for full auto because it’s got a 200-round drum hanging from its mag-well. 5.56 begins snapping by me. JEE-zus! I run behind a car and take cover, huddling Bitefighter in my arms. I glance left, right, and realize that if I break from cover, I’m gonna have to cross a long stretch of open ground, and I’ll probably be riddled with an ass-full of bullets.
Only one option left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Kim Kardashian materializes beside me. My mouth drops open in awe. She kisses me on the lips and says, “I’ll provide cover with my giant ass. Fly Man Child Kent Wayne—fly!”
I hunch-sprint out from cover, and I hear rounds being muffled by the craziest derriere to ever break the internet. Bitefighter and I make it to the treeline and we scramble through the forest. (Out of sheer panic, we start singing the Taco Song again.)
The adventures of Man Child and Bitefighter continue!
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