THREE WEEKS AGO:
“Initial here, here…and sign here.” the soccer mom points out various lines and boxes where I should l scrawl my name. I do as she asks, click the pen closed, and hand it back to her.
She takes it back along with the clipboard and contract. “So are we clear on what you’re going to be doing?”
I nod. “Wait until the cake stops rolling, then burst out from it. Be dressed in nothing but booty shorts and a bowtie. Dance and flirt with your friends for the rest of the night.”
“You’re supposedly the best Man Whore in North America.” She gives me a warning look. “Don’t let me down.”
“Relax,” I laugh. “I’ve done this thousands of times.”
Squeaka-squeaka-squeaka-squeeeeek….the cake rolls to a stop.
Here we go: deep breath, tense up, and…
“SURPRISE!” I burst from the confection, throwing my arms and legs out wide. But instead of the claps and gasps I’m accustomed to hearing, I’m met with stony silence.
I grin weakly and glance around. I’m surrounded by dozens of soccer moms, all dressed in various forms of party attire. They’re all glaring at me as if I’d just farted myself awake.
One of them raises her arm and points at my chest. “HE’S GOT RED INK ON HIM! HE’S A GRAMMAR NAZI!”
Oh SHIT! Yesterday I engaged in a hand-to-hand death-match with Grammar Nazi Prime atop a high-speed bullet train! During the melee, I must have gotten splashed by his evil red ink!
The soccer moms rail at me, voicing their displeasure:
“Go correct some soulless essays, you dickfaced Man Whore!”
Kazoos, balloons, and all manner of party trinkets come arcing toward me and pelt my body. I curl up and raise my hands along with a knee, protecting my organs along with my hairy necessaries (trimmed, of course) from an unceasing barrage of soccer mom rage. They keep screaming and yelling, getting angrier and angrier. This is bad—REALLY bad. If I don’t do something soon, then—
“PUT HIM IN STOCKADES! HOOK HIS BALLS UP TO LIVE CAR BATTERIES!”
They exchanging evil smiles, pumping their fists in time with their chant:
“CAR BATTERY BALLS! CAR BATTERY BALLS! CAR BATTERY—”
No options left. I open my eReader, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Suddenly, I’m holding Bitefighter—my Buddy For Life, and 10 lb. Terrier Extraordinaire—in my arms, morphed into six-week-old puppy form (so he’s more like two lbs. right now), dressed in a little Superman shirt. He cocks his tiny, baseball-sized head in a quizzical slant and says:
The soccer moms are helpless before his cuteness. Some of them begin blubbering on the spot, while others reach toward him and gabble out baby-talk. In a matter of seconds, I’m once again Hotness itself.
Whew! FUCK car battery balls!
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