IN THE YEAR 2030, MARK ZUCKERBERG FAILED TO TAP ENOUGH ASS. CONSEQUENTLY, HIS NERD-RAGE FLARED FROM HEALTHY READINGS OF BETWEEN 30 AND 40 TO A CATASTROPHIC LEVEL TERMED: “BUCK-NUTS APESHIT.” HIS ANGER ITERATED INTO FACEBOOK’S ABUSE OF PERSONAL INFORMATION, THEN MORPHED INTO FLEETS OF DRONES THAT PATROL OUR CITIES, ENSURING THAT EVERY MALE WHO’S MORE WELL-ENDOWED THAN ZUCKERBERG (NO ONE KNOWS HIS LENGTH AND CIRCUMFERENCE, BUT RUMOR HAS IT THAT HE’S PACKING A PATHETIC 2.349 INCHES OF LENGTH AND 1.308 INCHES OF GIRTH, AND THAT’S AT FULL MAST, MEASURED FROM THE TAINT. AS I JUST SAID: PATHETIC) IS PUBLICLY EXECUTED ON LIVE TELEVISION.
OVER THE YEARS, I’VE MANAGED TO HIDE MY GIANT HOG, BUT DURING MY MORNING PEE, ONE OF HIS DRONES FLEW BY MY BATHROOM WINDOW.
“SURRENDER, KENT! YOUR EXISTENCE IS ANATHEMA TO THE LORD OF NORTH AMERICA: MARK ZUCKERBERG!”
I shift into fifth, gritting my teeth as my jeep punches and weaves between lines of traffic. Flying drones target me with their electrospark tasers; in my rearview, I see them flash violently against blacktop pavement. Hordes of beta-males (they’re the only ones who’ve managed to survive Zuckerberg’s Penile Purge) yell at me from their cars, urging me to give up my giant, delicious cock to the mephistophelian authorities.
I scream back, “I’M A DAYWALKER MAN; JUST BECAUSE I’M FIT DOESN’T MEAN I HATE NERDS! I’VE ALWAYS APPRECIATED A ROLL OF THE TWENTY-SIDED DICE, OR AN IN-DEPTH CONVERSATION ABOUT THE MYRIAD TACTICS THAT BATMAN MIGHT USE TO HUMBLE A KRYPTONIAN!” The drones ignore my entreaty and keep firing.
Fuck them. I yank the e-brake and hit a j-turn—SCREEEE—kicking up a giant cloud of smoke as I spin completely around. The drones follow, veering into sharp u-turns and continuing to tail me as I dart through columns of oncoming traffic. A fresh round of honks assault my ears.
“OUT OF THE ROAD, FUCKER!”
“YOU GIRTHY-PENISED TRAITOR!”
“GIVE THE REST OF US THIN-DICKED DORKS A CHANCE!”
No dice. I hit the nitrous oxide and my jeep rockets forward, earning me a volley of raised middle fingers and angry shouts. I look in my rearview; the drones are gaining. My Fast and Furious hijinks may have bought me a few more minutes, but cars weren’t meant to evade state-of-the-art drones, especially when said drones were built by micro-penised geeks (if you didn’t know, micro-penised geeks build the best stuff).
So I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
The ejection mechanism triggers. As the roof flies off and tumbles back, I catapult out and somersault through the air, landing in a flying squat rack. I root my feet onto its metal platform and start knocking out squats, hitting deep in the pocket to activate those oh-so-grabbable ham-hocks that’ve brought hours of delight to my past love interests. At the same time, mechanized arms from the sides of its rails feed me medium-rare ribeye, and hardcore metal blasts out from its side-mounted speakers. I swoop through legions of drones, inundating them with testosterone.
The overload of manliness is too much; nerd-powered drones begin exploding, dotting the sky with crimson blasts. My eyes widen as I push my steak-eating/squat-pumping abilities to their absolute limits. My penis grows a few extra inches, and I feel it head twitching by my kneecap in joyous spasms.
Never persecute a big-dicked author; they may conjure up a flying, robot-destroying squat rack that’s imbued with the spirit of All That is Man. 😀
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