Thinking of milfs, jerking the meat, HERE IT CO—
Right as I bust, Chuck Norris sprints through the door and grabs my wiener.
“What in the FUCK?!?” I shove him back and look down in horror. It’s already shriveled into an acorn-sized nub.
“Ha!” He puts his hands on his hips. “Turned ya gay, ya communist pedo! Now do what I say or I’ll tell everyone the truth!”
I buckle my pants and narrow my eyes at him. “That…is not how any of that works. None of those lies have anything to do with what you just did. In fact, I could call the cops and have you arrested for assault.”
“Oh.” He looks crestfallen. “Uh…anyways, wanna help me save the world?”
“You couldn’t have just asked?”
He scratches his head, looks nervously off to the side, and hisses through his teeth. “I…uh…I just…”
“Let’s go. Fucking idiot.”
ONE HOUR LATER…
“THERE!” Chuck Norris hollers extra loud, so I can hear him over the WHUP-WHUP-WHUP of our helicopter’s rotors. “THEY’RE SHITTING RED INK ON EVERYTHING THEY CAN FIND!” He points at a horde of Grammar Nazis, excreting red liquid on phones, laptops, and any other writing utensil that happens to be within reach.
“HOW DO YOU KNOW IT’S INK?” I shout. “IT COULD JUST BE HEMORRHOIDS OR—”
“I TASTED IT! IT’S DEFINITELY INK!”
Before I can express my undying disgust, he leaps off the skid, screams EHHHHH-HOOOOOO!!! and lands in their midst. He throws a few of his trademark roundhouse kicks before he vanishes under a sea of balding pates, jawline-devoid faces, and pasty-skinned claws.
“KENT! HALP!” I catch a glimpse of his sleeveless arm, poking out of his 80s denim vest, before a dozen more Grammar Nazis pile onto his torso.
Fuck. My wiener still looks like a frightened hamster tail, thanks to Chuck’s karate-roughened touch. It’s my only weapon of any note, and I need to access it post fucking haste.
Only one option left. I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My wiener instantly grows to its normal length. Typically, I keep it coiled around my leg and tucked in my sock. Right now, that would defeat the purpose of bringing it out of its coma, so I let it dangle as we swoop in low. It roars in fury as it bludgeons hundreds of Grammar Nazis, clearing the streets of pedantic dorks. Some get caught in the smegma-ridden folds—they claw the air with upturned hands, screaming like banshees as their faces melt off their Gollum-like skulls.
Chuck scrabbles onto a goo-free section of my ponderous shaft. “Good lord!” he exclaims. “That is a LOT of stripper pimples!”
I shrug in resignation. “Their perfume is cheap. Not the best when it comes to healthy pores.”
He meets my eyes with a hopeful gaze. “After we’re done here, do you wanna do nekkid bicep curls while staring at our bodies in a full-length mirr—”
“NO.”
He scowls and grumbles, “Communist pussy.”
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