“I’m coming for you, Kent!  And hell’s comin’ with me!”  Chuck Norris glares at me through my phone screen, thrusts his hips and grabs his crotch, and throws me the finger before he hangs up

Fuck, what did I do???  I need to get out of here before—

He roundhouse-kicks through my fucking garage, crinkling the door and busting in like the Kool Aid man.  But instead of saying “Ohhh YEAH!” he points a finger at me and tearfully shouts, “It’s all yer FAULT!  You and yer sexy Chinese penis!”

“I’m Korean-American, actually.  Just because I’m—”

“SHUT YER SEXY CHINESE MOUTH!  QUIT MESSIN’ WITH MY DAMN INTELLECTUAL!”

I have no idea how to respond.  “Uh…”

“There’s nuthin’ left fer us eighties icons!” he rages.  “Back in my day, no one cared if you wet yerself when it was cold, ’cause you were trynna piss through three inches of winter clothing with a mere two inches a’ dick!”

I tilt my head in blatant skepticism.  “Uh…I kinda feel like people still cared.”

“SHADDAP!” he yells.  “Look at this—LOOK AT IT!!!”  He yanks down his pants and brandishes his wiener. 

I shield my face with an instinctive hand, but not before I spot the laser scope he’s attached to the shaft.  “It’s too small and weak to be accurate,” he sobs.  “Even with the laser, I gotta hunker down and halve the distance, so I don’t paint the rim with my old man pee.”

“What the fuck?!?”  I squint my eyes and extend both arms, using my hands to blot out his wiener.  “Couldn’t you just take a goddamn seat?  Maybe spritz it with a cleaner whenever you miss?  Hold on—”  I reach down to my sock and adjust the head of my womb-hammer.  “Ow, shit—sorry.”  I give a rueful laugh.  “Sometimes the dicklips nibble on my foot.  I got me an anklebiter.”

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!!”  He zips his pants with a furious swipe.  “YER RUINING IT FER THE REST OF US!”

I shrug in defeat.  “I don’t know what to tell you—I’m a professional Man Whore.”

“That is IT!  Get ready fer yer soul to leave yer motherfuckin’ body!”  He roars in fury as he charges toward me.

FUCK.  There’s no way I can withstand his small-dick-powered roundhouse—that’s a lifetime of rage channeled into his foot.  So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers.  Magic flash. 

Steven Seagal, the Grossest Man Alive, rockets through my roof like a goddamn meteor, dressed in a pair of yellow-stained whitey-tighteys.  Chuck Norris blurts, “What in the tar-fucking-NATION—” before Steven smothers Chuck with his grotesquely large, village-feeder man-teats.

“HELP!” Chuck screams.  “It smells like week-old bukkake!  I can’t—HRRMMMFF!”  The rest of his sentence is lost in Steven’s nasty chest hair.

“Every day, I eat several helpings of fermented sewer pizza,” Steven explains in his deadpan voice.  “That’s how I maintain a pungent body odor.  Care to smell?”

My eyes start to water.  “NO.”  I hold my nose and run like hell. 

Good LORD that is a horrible way to meet your maker!  Welp, that’s what you get, Chuck—keep your small penis fury to your goddamn self!

Kent Wayne wins again!  HEH heh heh!

😀

Have you been accosted by an aging overcompensator, intent on whooping your ass because of your beautiful genitalia?  Never fear!  Buy my books, summon the grossest man alive, and destroy your foe with a dose of sewer pizza body odor!

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