The world is wildly different than it was a year ago. Viruses. Unrest. Karens.
People were once resigned to a slow, societal decline, but now they seek—and participate in—a fast-moving spiral into anarchic chaos.
What do we do? What CAN we do?
I stare morosely at my laptop, watching as conflict and turmoil pour from my newsfeed. Fuck it. Time to go to my tried-and-true respite from bullshit: MyFriendsHotMom dot Com.
But as I click over to the site, the unspeakable happens: a deluge of essays—all coated in red-ink corrections—explode across the screen, like a hellish version of a stage-magic card flutter. My wiener arches in my pants, uttering a cry of pure, unrequited pain, then shrivels into a thumbtack-sized shadow of its former self.
“Grammar Nazi Prime!” I gasp. “You’ve hacked my MILF porn!”
A nasal chuckle blares from my speakers. “It was only a matter of time, you big-penised buffoon! Not so big now, is it?”
I squinch my eyes, fighting the urge to shit, vomit, and commit seppuku all at once. “You’ve infected my computer with Grammarian memetics—flooded my mind with the antithesis to novelty!”
“Painful, no?” The essays fade, only to be replaced by something infinitely more hideous: his jawline-devoid face. He inspects his nails like a cut-rate Bond villain. “I estimate you have five minutes before your brain melts down and oozes out your ears.”
I grit my teeth. “Not..gonna…HAPPEN.” I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
I teleport into his hideout, descending upon him as I rip off my pants. “You forgot about my BALLS, bitch!”
I throw my scrotum over his face before he can react. My dangly nuts act like heavy bolo-weights; they keep my sack plastered to his mug.
I think he’s trying to say “mercy,” but it ain’t gonna happen—not with my smeg-coated giggleberries all up in his grill. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill him.
But I AM going to savor this.
Because this is what you get for depriving me of MyFriendsHotMom dot Com! Ha HA!
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