Time to unwind with a nighttime beach walk. Do-be-do-be-dooo…
SHIT!
My foot snags on broken concrete. I pitch over the safety rope, tumble down the slope, and—
THUNK!
…
………….
Murgg…am I still on the beach? No, I’m inside an ambulance…
“Relax. You’re on the way to the hospital.” The lady paramedic gives my boner a meaningful nod. “Quite the bulge you got there. Like a xenomorph chest-burster, only down by your crotch.”
“Wait.” Panic sets in. “How long have I been out?”
“Relax.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You slept through the night. An early-morning jogger called 911.”
“No, you don’t understand! If I don’t blow a load every few hours, then—”
My wiener lurches and growls, drawing our eyes to its blanket-covered head.
“The hell was that?” she whispers.
My phone starts ringing. “Where is it?” I gasp.
“Here.” She reaches under the gurney and pulls my phone out from my crumpled jeans.
The screen lights up. “Kent!” the President barks. “What in the Sam-damned malarkey is going on with your penis? Our sensors are all in the fink-busting red!”
“The President?” The paramedic’s eyes go wide.
“Yer dad-blasted right I’m the President!” he yells. “That penis is supposed to orgasm on a thrice-nightly basis, or we risk a global reset that would make World War III look like a game of badminton with cheese! Now it’s backed up to fuck and we gotta ease the sperm out! Whatever you do, don’t set it off—it’s gotta be done with specialized tech!”
She glances between the President and me with an are-you-for-real look. Then it resolves into a sudden epiphany. “I’ve got just the thing!” She whips out her phone, opens the photo app, and start swiping through it. “These are pics of my mom. She’s decades older, so it should cool your libido down and—”
“You FOOL!” I scream. “Put that thing away! Don’t you know that milfs are the most searched-for category when it comes to porn vide—”
Too late. My wiener grows another foot, expresses a deep, resonant groan, then blows out a gigantimous load. The wind from its passage tears the paramedic into a bloody haze, like what you’d see in a Neil Blonkamp flick. The roof flies off in an apocalyptic, miles-long column of Fifth Element-worthy jizz, while the President screams something-something-something about how I’ve become death, destroyer of worlds. In the goo-spattered sky, clouds form into a swirling rift, replete with dark-magic blaze and red-glaring lightning. Cthulu pokes his tentacle-heavy face out from the portal, takes one look at my semen, then shakes his head—NAH—and nopes the fuck back to the Eternal Dark.
The western seaboard is about to shit the bed. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
I travel back in time, teleporting a handful of hours and a couple of miles, to where my unconscious self has tumbled off the walkway onto the beach. I reach in his pocket, pull out his phone, and start playing clips from My Friends Hot Mom dot com. His boner lurches, croaks, then lets out a plaintive squeal before yarking up a boatload of sperm. (Ugh—smells like Gary Busey doing squats in a headband.)
Well…at least the world won’t end in a flash-flood of jism. Whew!
Are your restless gametes about to trigger an extinction-level event? Never fear! Buy my books and stave off Ragnarok!
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Kent Wayne 
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