IN THE DISTANT FUTURE, WHEN GRAMMAR NAZIS CONTROL THE GODDAMN WORLD…

What the—am I in a ZOO EXHIBIT???

I run up to the glass and bang it with my fists.  “Hey!  HEY!  What in the FUCK?!?”

A bald, jawline-devoid, testosterone-deprived tour guide walks a group of schoolchildren up to my enclosure.  “With recent advances in genetic stabilization, we’ve successfully resurrected this blithering imbecile, personality and memory completely intact, right at the moment of his masturbation-induced death.  Behold the first viable recreation of the disgusting subspecies known as the Creatives, shortly before the Grammar Nazi Imperium came to power and cleansed the world of gibbering insanity.  Children, I present to you Kent Wayne, or, in more technical terms, Total idioticus.”

“Fuck you!”  I slam both middle fingers up against the glass.  “CHEW ON A BAG OF SMEG-COATED DICKS!”

“Come, children.”  The tour guide folds his hands behind his back.  “It isn’t advisable to spend too much time in his stupid-ass presence.” 

As they walk away, I start to hyperventilate.  They cloned me?  WHAT?  Like in Jurassic fucking Park?  I’m gonna live out my life in this twisted-ass freakshow???

Not a chance.  I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers.  Magic flash. 

Soccer Mom Prime jumps out of an interdimensional portal and smashes the glass with a spinning side kick.  Computerized alarms shriek and blare, coating the walls in flashing red light.  A second later, kitted-out guards form a semicircle and shoulder a bevy of space-age rifles.

Soccer Mom Prime rips out my ankle-length wiener, brandishing it like a vampire-repelling cross as we edge out of the cage.  “Back—BACK, you hamster-dicked fucks!”

The unsuspecting guards start clawing their eyes out, screaming like they’ve just caught a glimpse of Cthulu’s soul-wrecking asshole.  I’m puzzled by their response, until their team leader shouts, “Don’t look, goddammit!  Our Grammar Nazi minds are unable to process anything bigger than a single inch penis, due to our pedantic Smeagol-like nature!  Activate the battle-drone and instruct it to—AAAAHHHH!!!”  He drops to his knees, unsheathes a vibrating plasma dagger, and commits seppuku on the spot. 

My lips twitch in amusement.  Doesn’t matter if you try not to look—EVERYONE looks.  HEH heh heh!

“Come on!”  Soccer Mom Prime runs toward the exit, tugging me along by my big ol’ womb-hammer.  “I need to get LAID!”

I follow her lead, a shit-eating grin plastered wide on my face.  Right before we leave, I catch Jeff Goldblum’s eye—he’s sitting in an exhibit off to the side—and throw him a nod.

He returns my nod and mumbles, “Life, uh, finds a way.”

Damn straight, homie!  Kent Wayne wins again!

😀

Have Grammar Nazis interrupted your eternal rest, just so they can point and laugh at your creatively gifted mind?  Never fear!  Buy my books, break out of your cage, and give them Event Horizon-level trauma by showing off your brain-meltingly gorgeous genitals! 

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