Yaaawwwn…doo be doo be dooo…I roll out of bed in my Batman onesie, perform my requisite morning scratching, plunk down in my chair, and shuffle through my mail. Let’s see…bills, junk, comics…ah—stuff from readers.
The first letter reads: “Dear ‘Kunt,’—”
(Ha ha ha; I came up with that before you did, douche face)
“Your insipid drivel made me barf for 12 hours straight. I hate you, I hate your family, and I now loathe humanity due to your stupefying stupidness.”
In the trash it goes. Whatta dick.
The second one reads: “Greetings, you unmitigated piece of shit. Your exceptionally large, award-winning penis in no way makes up for your narcoleptic flatulence, which you use for an alarm clock like the filthy barbarian you are. I strongly urge you to commit seppuku with a rusty clothes hanger. Your soul needs to be ripped from your body, shat on, and—”
I ball it up and three-point it into the waste basket. Fucker.
The next one reads DON’T OPEN THIS across the front of its envelope.
Curious, I open it.
There’s another envelope inside, one that reads: REALLY—DON’T OPEN THIS. I open it, revealing a third envelope that reads: I’M WARNING YOU: DO. NOT. OPEN. THIS.
And of course, I open it. Inside it is a yellow post-it note with a drawing of an erect penis, complete with unshaven ballsack.
HA! That was a good one!
But the rest suck. I go through letter after letter detailing how I should eat feces, be eaten and turned INTO feces, be stuffed with feces until my body resembles my soul: a thin, ugly container from which feces springs forth…
(Geez, what is it with feces???)
…as well as bludgeoned in the nuts with some kind of jackhammer-affixed boxing glove. But then my mind flashes back to the second letter: how the hell could they know my johnson’s won awards? Mr. Peniverse is a secret tournament, hidden from the public and kept strictly confidential. And furthermore, how do they know I need no alarm clark—that I fart myself awake? Gotta say, this is making me nervous…I eye the corners of my studio, looking for spy cameras or—
KSSSHHHHH!!! The windows burst inward and dozens of women roll across the ground, like some kind of cross between tier-one operators and last-round finalists for American Ninja. I get up to run, but they dial submachine guns in on me, clicking on visible lasers for intimidation purposes. There’s no hope; I’m beat six ways to Sunday. I raise my hands, look around, and my mouth drops open.
They’re my Exes. Of course they would know.
One of them lowers her gun and produces a jackhammer-affixed boxing glove. An evil grin widens her lips.
“We’ll get to the feces, but we’ll start with mashed testicles.” She pulls the ripcord, and—VvvvVVVvvvVVVVVMMMMM—the glove starts pistoning the air, ready to kill billions of sperm.
Only one option left. I reach into my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Suddenly, I’m holding a double armful of Cheesecake Factory menus. Yep—one of the few menus in existence that could double as a novel. I throw them into the midst of my Exes, and they can’t help but scan 300 pages of entrees, appetizers, desserts, drinks, kids items…
Their eyes widen—like someone who’s just realized they’re in for a nasty psychedelic trip.
Ha HA! I’ve suffered through many, MANY hours waiting for Exes to choose what they want to eat—turnabout’s fair play!
The adventures of your favorite author (and perennial Man Child) Kent Wayne continue! 😀
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