Mrrrggh…what the hell is that under my back? I roll over in bed, reach behind me, and grab something mushy. I hold it up to see what it is.
A half-eaten protein bar that I fell asleep on! I sit up and chew its masterfully mixed, whey-protein-isolate nougat deliciousness. MMM! Breakfast!
(yes, I’ve done this in real life and yes, I can feel your judgment)
I nod to myself as I chew, bopping along to freestyle raps I’m composing in my head. Time to start writing. There’s books to write, blogs to tend, social media to—
BAM! My door bangs open, rebounding forcefully off the wall. Martha Stewart strides in, grinning like that predatory clown from “It.” I scuttle back on my hands and press against the wall, hugging my knees and quivering violently.
“Hello, Kent.” She eclipses the light with her prison-hardened frame. Her left hand shoots out and squeezes my jaw, squishing my cheeks and forcing my lips apart. “Do you know…” her right hand’s fingers root around inside my mouth. “That men have g-spots near their tonsils?”
“Aggg…gllkkk…” Tears stream from the corners of my eyes as her fingers thrust roughly between my teeth, probing every inch of my tongue, teeth, and palate. “BLUUUUHHH!!!” I clutch my stomach as she withdraws her hand. I feel her wiping her fingers off in my hair.
“I missed you, Kent; your Man Whore moves were the highlight of my bachelorette parties.”
“You’re…a convicted…FELON,” I gasp. “Stay away from me Mar—”
WHACK! My head snaps sideways as she slaps the shit out of me. I raise a trembling hand to my cheek, and feel four distinct pits on the side of my face; they’re from weight-lifting callouses; she’s jacked steel for thousands of hours in murder-infested prison yards.
“Martha…” I try to keep my voice from shaking, but only partially succeed.
“Shut your mouth, whore.”
Before I can wet myself, I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My Food Network crushes—Padma, Marcela, Ingrid, and a bunch of others—pile into my bedroom and take up fighting stances.
“There’s been some changes since you’ve been locked up.” Rachael Ray says in a tight-lipped, take-no-shit voice. “Back away from the Man Whore.”
Martha lets loose with a murderous shriek. A violent fray erupts in my bedroom. Because I’m a Man Child as well as a Man Whore, I start filming the melee on my iPhone, all the while screaming: “World STARRRRR!!!”
Sandra Lee snatches me up and throws me over her shoulder. She squeezes both my squat-thickened buttcheeks and makes 70s porn noises with her mouth.
Is there a God? Based on the fact I’m about to be used like cheap Betty Crocker brownie mix by a dozen suburban goddesses, I’d say there is. Moo hoo ha ha!
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