Oh God, 2020 just got a dickload worse—THEY TOOK AWAY COFFEE!!!

I run through the suburbs of sunny San Diego, hunching and flinching as erratic gunfire rattles the air.  Someone aims a burst at me—SNAP-SNAP-SNAP-SNAP—sending me diving behind a rusted dumpster.  Three houses down, a suburban worker-drone screams in fury and rips off his shirt, revealing a pasty, vitamin-d deprived dad-bod, then charges his neighbor with fast-zombie rage.

Coffee—WHERE’S THE COFFEE???

I break from the dumpster and sprint for my Jeep.  Howling Millennials taunt me with threats, firing at me as they swoop by in their Civics and Altimas.  I reach for the door but a trio of rounds spark off the handle and riddle it with holes.  FUCK!  I snatch my hand back and angle left.  If I make it behind that tree, I might be able to—

NO!  A pack of Karens zips by in a decked-out minivan and lasso me with a rope made from home-spun yarn.  They’re gonna ask to see the motherfucking manager!  I’m a professional Man Whore—THERE IS NO MANAGER!!!

I writhe and curse, but there’s no getting away from their impeccably made, Michaels-sourced restraint.  Fuck it.  No options left—I open my eReader to Kor’Thank, activating its reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

VRRMMM!!!  A helmeted figure zooms by on a turbocharged Ducati, snatching the lead Karen out from the van like a Batman attack-victim.  The rider cuts a j-turn, dumps the Karen, then halts her cycle and revs the throttle.

Holy fuck.  Superfit body, take-no-shit attitude…

No doubt about it—it’s Soccer Mom Prime.

The van-riding Karens swear and spit.  Their driver steps on the gas and rockets forward.

Soccer Mom Prime revs her cycle, kicking up a thick cloud of smoke, then hunkers down and accelerates toward the out-of-control Karens.

Just before they’re about to collide, Soccer Mom Prime pops a wheelie and drives up the hood and onto the windshield.  The Karen-mobile acts like a ramp—Soccer Mom Prime flies thirty feet up, propelled skyward at 100mph.  At the apex of her leap, she leans back and fires a grapnel gun at the rabid Karens, leashing their car with a magnetic anchor.  Before the line tightens, she hits the ground and weaves through some trees like the Dark fucking Knight.  Then she screeches to a halt and hops off her bike as the line goes taut.

The trees jerk, the Karens flip.  Soccer Mom Prime takes off her helmet and walks toward me, slow-motion eighties-style, backlit by the flames from the exploding Karen-mobile.

“Come with me if you want to live.”  She grabs my wiener, prompting a high-pitched squeal from my gaping mouth.  “And FUCK.”

Life.  Is.  AWESOME.

Kent Wayne wins again!  Ha HA!

😀

 

 

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