Ahh…another day in paradise. Roll out of bed, uncoil the wiener from around my ankle, give it a quick scratch n’ sniff (don’t judge—I know plenty of you do it), fix a cup of coffee and sit down to write.
I knock out a few hundred words, relax into the rhythm and flow, letting my mind drift along the roads of potential and possibility. No better therapy than a microdose and writing, lemme tell ya. Add in some Soccer Mom sex and an episode of Adventure Time…man, there’s no comparison.
Suddenly, my screen goes black.
Huh? Whafuh? I tap the keys, irritated as hell. All I’m doing is running a goddamn word processor, how the fuck does it crap out on me when all it has to do is—
“HEH heh heh!”
What the—I tap the speakers. Did someone hack me?
I straighten up, fighting the dread that boils in my gut. I know that voice.
“It’s me: Grammar Nazi Prime.” The screen fills with a chinless visage, defined by receding hair and a complete lack of jawline.
“What do you want?” I try to keep my voice from shaking. “GET OUT OF MY COMPUTER!”
“We Grammar Nazis have had enough of your freewheeling writing, not to mention your ridiculous good looks and visibly giant dick-print. You wear sweatpants almost every day, you insipid show-off. Time to put you in your place.”
Before I can respond, a laser shoots from the screen directly into my forehead, intensifying rapidly with white-cored brilliance. Holy shit! I can feel my features shifting, my thoughts changing…
The laser cuts off. Staring back at me from the faint reflection of the now-black screen is a horrific visage.
MOTHER OF BALLS HE TURNED ME INTO A KAREN!!!
“Oh ho ho ho…HEH heh heh…” My chuckles turn to sobs before abruptly switching into belly-shaking laughs. Tears stream down my cheeks as I fight the transformation.
“Nuh…NUH…NOOOO!!!” I cover my face and flail blindly around, swiping my desk clean with a violent swing of my outstretched arm. Oh God—I can feel the urge to watch televised megachurch building within me…the overwhelming impulse to buy nasty-ass fruitcakes for all and sundry…(who buys fruitcakes as a goddamn gift? Karens do and you know it—you fucking KNOW IT!)
Fuck it. No options left. I open my eReader to Kor’Thank, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Ropy white stems erupt through my condo’s floor and walls, blossoming into man-sized psychedelic mushrooms. One of them wraps me up tight. Another forces its way into my mouth like a blessed, mind-expanding cock.
“MRRF! MRRF! OM-NOM-NOMMY-MCNOMSKIES!” I maow down a pound of shroom in less than a second. The body buzz hits me like a mack fucking truck. Oh shit I’m coming up—
Slowly, ever so slowly—after I spend untold eons staring into the Unnamable’s asshole—I reintegrate back into the physical world…
As Kent Wayne, sci-fi writer and accomplished he-slut, thank God! Ain’t no Karen-energy in this big-penised Man Whore! Kent Wayne wins again! Ha HA!
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