Oh whazzup motha duckas! Some of my college classmates have invited me to a party! Yeah it’s weird ’cos I’m a vet in my thirties and they’re all like 19 or 20, but I’m not trying to hook up with them. Nope; I prefer my ladies a bit more refined. A bit more…
(I want their moms—soccer moms, baby! Ch’ka baow waow! 😉 )
YOU know what I mean! Anyways, I’m a cranky old soul in a yoked-up body, so as I buzz around the party, it’s pretty easy for me to strike up conversation…but hard to sustain it. “I know, right?” doesn’t come easy from my lips. And it’s pretty hard for me to keep track of all these new-fangled phrases. Like “throwing shade,” “on fleek” and “basic.” I’ve injected myself with a serotonin booster and IQ decreaser so I can hang with this new generation of babble-spewing super-ironic youngsters, but still…as the night wears on, so does my psyche. But whatevs; a welcome price to pay for the chance to meet a down-ass soccer m—”
And then I see it in the middle of the living room:
A fucking drum-circle.
I try to run to the door but the emo bullshit starts up, and my mind is assaulted by poetry and feelings. I drop to my knees, clutching my head, feeling my testosterone drop to dangerously low levels. My sack shrivels up into something that resembles a frightened raisin, and my dong shrinks down to baby-acorn size proportions; I’m talking so damn small that a starving squirrel would turn its nose up at it.
Only one option left. I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Soccer moms bust in from everywhere, all dressed in fashionable black tactical. They mow through these kids with a flurry of bitch-slaps, accented by reprimands like: “Stop saying everything in a questioning tone! Goddamn millennials!”
One of them slings me over her shoulder and stuffs a juicy ribeye in between my chompers. I instinctively gnash down, masticating giant pieces of medium-rare amaze-o-ness. My genitals are instantly restored to their world-crushing proportions. But still…I’m being carried off by a deadly team of soccer mom commandos. Am I in danger?
I question the soccer mom who’s hoofing it through the dorm, my torso firmly draped across her shoulder. “Um…ma’am? Where are you taking me?”
“We’re gonna use you like cheap cupcake mix. Shut your mouth and enjoy the ride, whore.”
I can’t help but smile.
*70s porn music*
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