I arrange the Cheeto, the Dorito, and the Gusher carefully atop my Castle Grayskull fortress, light an amaretto bayberry candle, and clasp my hands together.
“And so I offer these holy foods up to the daemon lord Blorlog, so that he may continue gifting me with a monstrous wiener and a host of stories, through which to convey my wiener’s undeniable monstrousness. (Jesus, is it monstrous!) Amen, Om Tat Sat, Tathaastu, and in brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight.”
I blow out the candle and rub my palms together. “Let’s eat!” Then I glomph down the Cheeto, Dorito, the Gusher, and I start tearing into the original bags from whence they came. Omnomnompf…delicious! As I stuff myself full of processed evil, I twerk around my living room and hum the Superman theme (John Williams version of course, what—you think I’m some kind of heathen?). In the midst of my joyous Man Child celebration, the door to my studio bangs open and in walk a bunch of pale, bloodless sons of whores decked out in ill-fitting tuxedos. They fix their squinty peepers at me and turn their noses up. Oh shit.
I try to squirt past them but they quickly dog-pile me, restraining my speedo-ed body with their pale, untoned limbs. I might be stronger and know a few dirty tricks, but none of that matters when there’s so many of them…and they’re all so young…
(I like to throw in quotes from Frank Miller’s “Dark Knight Returns” whenever I can. Don’t judge.)
Four of them stand up, belting out an acapella version of “O Fortuna” from Carmina Burana (it’s the Satan theme song in a buttload of movies, if you’re confused by the reference), and my ex Irma Horfendorff walks through the door in slow motion. Oh FUCK!
The Snobbiest Foodie of them all!
She sneers at my counter, replete with the finest low-carb protein bars known to man, and viciously backhands them, sending them flying across the room. She thrust-kicks the leftover pizza I was gonna have for dinner, splattering my floor with sauce and cheese. Then she reaches into the fridge, shakes my uncooked bacon all over my sputtering face, then pours can after can of my beloved grape Zevia into my eyes and my nose.
“Why—PPTT! PPPT! —why are you DOING THIS?” I scream.
“Time for you to grow the hell up, Kent. Time for you to stop amusing yourself with genital shadow-puppets, time for you to stop touting pizza and mountain dew as the finest foods to ever grace the Earth! Open wide, bitch!” She claps her hands and one of her vile assistant scurries up to her, bowing his head as he kneels down and offers up a plate. On its surface are meager thimblefuls of endangered meats, decorated with pussified splashes of thrice-stewed sauce or whatever the fuck.
“Open wide, Kenty…” she shoves a morsel into my mouth.
I spit it back in her face. For a second, unchecked fury blazes through her eyes. Then she straightens up and smiles.
“Fine. You don’t appreciate the finer things in life? You just sit there and watch while I appreciate them for you.” She begins popping morsel after morsel into her mouth, deploying one of the most devastating weapons ever invented:
Snobbie Foodie Food Moans.
“MMMMMM!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! RMMMMRRROHMYGODDDDD!!!! SO GOOOOOOD!!! YOU HAVE TO TRY THIS!!!!”
I twist desperately in place, clenching my eyes shut, but it’s no use; my ears and anus erupt with blood. I piss my pants and beg for my sanity, but she doesn’t care; she continues assaulting my mind with her evil Foodie Moans.
Only one option left. I rip an arm free, shoot it into my pocket, and open it to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Suddenly, my mouth is filled with a potent glob of ghost pepper stew. I wriggle away from my captors, swallow the ghost peppers, and run to the entrance of my humble studio. I yank my pants down, and plug the doorway with my swelling butt. The Snobby Foodies pound desperately away at my distended rear, begging for their lives and howling in terror.
“I’M SORRY!” I shout. “YOU MADE ME DO THIS! I DIDN’T WANT TO!”
They just keep pounding and begging. My gut lurches. Oh God here it comes…
Their screams cut off.
Have you been assaulted by Snobby Foodies who are being led by your Ex, the most horrific Food Moaner of all time? Never fear! Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here: Combined Edition I’ve started a podcast: Logical Idiots! If you want to check it out on YouTube, see it here: Logical Idiots on YouTube and help two complete morons out by subscribing, liking, and commenting! Here’s the iTunes page: Logical Idiots on iTunes. Also, my buddy Jumar Balacy has made a supercool microsite at kentwaynebrain.com! Go check out his computer-based wizardry 🙂 🙂 😀
Hold on! I just got approved to be an Amazon affiliate! If you’re going to buy ANY product from Amazon, and you’d like to support my efforts for absolutely free, then simply click on one of the Echo links I’ve provided—they’ll send you to Echo’s Amazon page—and THEN buy whatever product you wish. Amazon gives me a small referral fee each time this happens! In this manner you can support my books, musings, podcast, zany ads, or my adventures along the noble path known as The Way of The Man Child WITHOUT spending any more money than you were already going to! Should you do this, I vow to send you a silent blessing, causing your genitals to adopt the optimum size, shape, smell, and death-ray attachment of choice that paralyzes your enemies with fear and envy! Entire worlds will bow before your nether parts! 😲💪 😜