[HERE THEY COME!]
My fellow tree electrochemically reaches out to me through our shared root system, alerting me to the presence of a horde of Douche-bros. I suppress a shudder; these brainless fucksticks pollute the forest with beer cans, hot dog/hamburger wrappers, marijuana roaches, and shitty guitar music. Unless there’s rain or snow, Bro Storm is a weekly occurrence. It usually involves a cookout, cringe-worthy white-boy dancing, and humping whatever girls the Bros have enticed with their small, stinky penises.
Headlights cut off, and so does the gangsta rap that floods out from their cars (it’s either Jack Johnson/Dave Matthews…or the most hardcore street rhymes you could ever imagine; I’ve never been able to figure it out). They come pouring out of their Wranglers and 4runners, inundating the woods with backwards baseball caps, cut off t-shirts, popped collars…and in case you’ve already forgotten: small, stinky penises.
[What’re we gonna do?] Redwood Tree #348 screams. [They’ve brought enough Mike’s hard lemonade and roofies to fucking destroy us all! FUCK, MAN—WHAT’RE WE GONNA DO???]
[Calm down.] I reply. [It’s just another Bro Storm; we’ve weathered these before, it’s not like they’re going to—]
[Look! LOOK!] Redwood Tree #348 is beside himself with indignation.
I stretch out with my senses. The Bros are high-fiving, sliding their sperm-slathered palms against each other in stupidly intricate handshakes. One of them whips out his acorn-like cock (all head and no neck) and takes a piss on Redwood Tree #487. 487 screams in abject horror.
[IT BURRRRNS! I CAN FEEL THE STUPIDITY INFECTING MY ROOT SYSTEM!]
Holy fucking Fangorn—there’s no WAY I’ll let my deciduous brethren lose their minds from these dickheads’ rank beer-piss. I reach out through my root system and issue a psychic call to every tree in a 100-mile radius:
[HEAR ME, TREES! WE MUST SUMMON THE ENEMY OF ALL THAT IS BRO: THE MAN CHILD KNOWN AS KENT WAYNE!]
Our minds come together in a rising chorus, blasting through the interdimensional ether in a soul-stirring cry filled with desperation, hope, and rage.
[SAVE US WAYNE—SAVE US FROM THESE HEATHENS]
A flaming comet parts the clouds, rocketing down from the heavens and crashing into the midst of the Bros’ campsite. The icy missile cracks open, revealing a booty shorts-clad goof, cabled with muscle and wielding an eReader. He stands up and takes stock of the Bros. His eyes widen in panic.
“SERVANTS OF EVIL!” he screams. Then he opens his eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Neil De Grasse Tyson comes rampaging through the bush. He growls viciously as he dips low and shoots in with a double-leg takedown, lifting one of the Bros bodily into the air and slamming him down onto his back. The other douche-monkeys dogpile the esteemed Cosmos star but he throws his arms back, roaring in fury, and throws them off like the Incredible Hulk. Glowing streams of math symbols, proofs, and his unique brand of science-made-poetry stream from his eyes and mouth. The Bros closest to him vanish in a flash of particulate, their bones glaring through their skin and clothes before they’re reduced to nuclear ash.
The rest of em run back to their cars, screaming, “TOO MUCH LOGIC! FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES!” Meanwhile, Kent Wayne is twerking like a madman, beatboxing and rapping as Mr. Tyson runs through the remaining Bros like a hot knife through butter.
Treebeard bless you Kent Wayne! You too, Neil De Grasse Tyson! 😀
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