Fucking hell! Never should have said that dogs are cuter than kids!
An hour prior, I was strolling through San Francisco’s suburbs; bopping, scatting, blurting nonsense words (I never really grew up, in case you haven’t guessed). As I passed a handful of alpha-female Soccer Moms—all running hill sprints, hoisting quinoa-fed babies at an extended-arm carry—I uttered the truth that man has known since the dawn of time:
“Dogs are cuter.”
And now I’m being chased! FUCK!
AhGodPlease! I gasp and flail as I sprint down the street, ugly-crying like Will Ferrell at his comedic best. Behind me, a horde of Soccer Moms follow relentlessly, T-1000 style. Most of them strap their kids to their backs, but the toughest among them continue holding their babies overhead, cheering each other on as they set a jaw-dropping PR for “extended-arm baby-sprint.”
There’s so many…and they’re all so STRONG…
I trip on my dickhead and tumble ass over teakettle. I hug my enormous wiener to my chest and sob into its folds. “This is it, Wiener! You were the best friend I ever had!” Tears and snot run down my face.
And then it happens: my eReader plops out of my pocket, opening to Echo and activating its reality distortion powers.
He-Man-esque swirls of brilliant energy swirl up and down Wiener, waking the god within its slumbering glans. Veins bulge as he expands and lengthens, towering dozens of feet into the sunny blue sky.
I scream in tandem with his giant dicklips, pounding my chest like King fucking Kong. At this point, I’m nothing more than a human ornament affixed to the end of a giant phallus.
He screams again, then we worm our way toward the ocean, off to fight fire-breathing dinosaurs and robots from space. As we make our escape, Soccer Moms stop and stare, transfixed by Wiener’s breathtaking presence.
“Go with our blessing, Man Whore,” the lead mom whispers. “You magnificent bastard.”
And that, my friends, is the origin story of Kent Wayne: sci-fi author and perennial Man Whore. Ha HA!
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