“Have you some of these,” Yoda giggles, holding out a handful of mushrooms. “They beat the dogshit out of Force-clairvoyance.”
“What happened to your sentence structure?” I ask, maowing down the shrooms. “Don’t you usually talk…you know, backwards?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “I only do that to sound more eccentric. Adds some flavor, you know? And only around idiots like Luke or the Council. Now come on—show me how to use that Jedi dating app. I’ve gone too long without blowing a load.” He taps a line of coke onto his finger, then snorts it up. “Want some?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Nah,” I decline. “No hard stuff. Just shrooms and weed.”
He snorts again, this time in derision. “Pussy.”
For the next few minutes, I guide him through the app. Once I show him how it works, he swipes right on anything with a hole. Personally, I doubt anyone’ll swipe right on his muppet-looking ass, but—
“I got one!” he yells. “What do I do? What do I do?”
“Start texting,” I say. “Tell her you’re—”
“She says she knows where I am!” he shouts. “She’s coming over right now!”
“What?” My brow crinkles. “How is that even—”
A lightsaber pokes through the wall, carving out a sizzling, person-sized hole. Seconds later, the wall blows inward, revealing a cloaked figure shrouded in smoke. Her head is capped by a distinctive blond bob.
“Shit!” Yoda screams. “It’s Darth Karen! I am fucking OUTTA HERE!” He runs out the door, hops on a speeder, and fucks off at 200mph.
I try to follow, but DK hits me with a well-timed Force-freeze. My legs float off the ground, my body turns in the air.
“What do you want?” I wheeze.
“To drive the world mad with my unbearable squawking,” she replies. “Seems you have a superpower of your own…” She begins telekinetically unzipping my pants. “Unnaturally girthy, diamond-hard upcurve…”
“No,” I hiss. “Don’t you DARE!”
Too late. She slathers my crotch in Karen energies.
My wiener screams into my mind—EEEEEEE!!!—as it shrinks into a laughable shadow of its former self. No longer does it dangle between my ankles, luring lips and holes with its shapely glans. Now it resembles a frightened hamster tail, completely devoid of presence or melanin (no one talks about it, but not a single one of you want an albino-pale, mole-rat-baby wiener; admit it—ADMIT IT!)
“NNNNNHHHHRRAAAAAHH!” I scream. “YOU SICK FUCKING MONSTER! I MADE MY LIVING WITH THAT AWARD-WINNING HOG!”
“And now you’ll be forced to live on the streets,” she chuckles. “Karens strike again, bitch—Karens strike again.”
Fuck it. No options left. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
A woman-shaped blaze takes shape behind my tormentor, resolving into my eternal crush. DK starts to turn around—“What the fuck?”—but Soccer Mom Prime grabs both her arms, rips them off, then beats the life out of her with the bloody stumps.
“Well.” She tosses the arms to the side. “Let’s see about bringing that wiener back to life. I’m pretty sure I can make it grow.”
And so am I. I’ve always had a thing for super-hot soccer moms!
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
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