20 YEARS FROM NOW:
Back when I was a struggling author, I had to limit my intake of spicy sausage; If I had one bite too many, I’d be confined to my bathroom for hours on end, unable to write so much as a single word due to the flood of tears running down my cheeks, as well as the gasps of agony racking my body.
But now, my books have paid off; I’ve achieved financial independence, and commute from country to country in a private jet. If I want to spend a few hours sitting atop an unfeeling porcelain god, that’s my prerogative. I can also hum stupid jingles for hours on end, without anyone telling me to shut the hell up. (I really like the classic one for Chili’s baby-back ribs, but I’m also a huge fan of the one for Empire Carpet.) Occasionally, I make up my own, which is what I’m currently doing:
“Spiiicy sausage! SPIIIIIICY sausage! Untold glories of the SPIIIIIIICY sausage!”
Galumph! I down my fifth spicy sausage of the hour. Bernita Cadman—longtime friend, fellow billionaire, and a tagalong guest on this trip to Barbados—looks warily at me.
“Kent, for each spicy sausage you eat, you spend an hour in the bathroom. That’s your—”
The rest of her sentence is drowned out by an unprecedented rush of Sausage Fury. GALUMPH! GALUMPH! GALUMPH! I eat eight more sausages in the space of a second. When I look up, I see Bernita fiddling with the emergency parachute.
I stretch my arm out toward her. “Bernita, wait! I’m sor—”
She opens the emergency exit and glares furiously over her shoulder. “I was looking forward to chilling on the beach, but now I’ve gotta hole up in my apocalypse bunker! This is YOUR fault!”
And before I can finish my apology, she jumps out of the plane and disappears.
My belly voices a querulous grumble. I relax in my chair and give my poochy stomach a double-handed pat. Bernita’s cool, but I think she’s overreacting; I’ve had spicy sausage before. It’s not like I’m gonna—
My butthole lurches. My eyes widen.
I’ve had spicy sausage before…but THIRTEEN IN ONE SITTING?
I start punching numbers into my iPad, using a cutting-edge app that calculates exactly how much destruction I’m about to unleash. I click the CALCULATE button and the screen switches to a 3-D map of the Earth; the parts that are about to be destroyed are highlighted in flashing shades of red. Rank sweat beads across my brow. A couple seconds later, my jaw drops open in abject horror:
The entire globe is colored crimson.
As my starfish quivers faster and faster, like a diving board that was just used by Andre the Giant, I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
I’m instantly teleported to a world of savage Insectoids. A quarter-mile away, I see millions of them cresting a hill, darkening the horizon with their chitinous thoraxes. As they rush forward, I close my eyes and relax my rectum.
Thank you, Stephen King, for writing the Dark Tower series, which seemed realer than any history book I’ve ever read.
Thank you, Voltron, for infusing my mind with a love for robots and giant swords.
Thank you, Batman, for inspiring me to exercise, eat healthy, and deliver countless orgasms to legions of women.
Thank you, Joe Rogan for—
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