“You know why we’re here.” Tom Cruise looks gravely from face to face. “Kent Fucking Wayne. He’s taken the Man Whore world by complete fucking storm. Over the last few years, we’ve seen our rankings wither into dust.”
He’s answered by a series of murmured agreements. Timothy Chalamet and Austin Butler nod along and cross their arms.
“We need to destroy this piece of shit upstart. First things first—let’s take our measurements and see what we’re working with.” As he produces a ruler, they whip out their dicks and grumble discontentedly. “NO PROSTHETICS!” Tom points at Jacob Elordi. “I see you, dick-stain! Quit fucking with the goods and give us an honest goddamn measurement!”
If looks could kill, Jacob would be punching Tom’s heart through his chest, and curb-stomping his skull against the nearest suitably right-angled surface.
Seconds later, the measurements come rolling in. They’re pretty impressive. I’d have to give them all a tip of the hat, but I can tell they’re cheaters—they’re all measuring from the back of their assholes.
I rip off my Chris Hemsworth-shaped mask. “Surprise, fucksticks—you thought you could out-cock me? You’re in the wrong game, motherfuckers! You guys use rulers? Ask your moms—I need to use a goddamn tape measure!”
“GET HIM!” Tom leads the charge, threatening my life with a horde of subpar Man Whores.
Fuck. There’s no way I can beat them all. So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My tape measure-worthy wiener untucks from my sock, unwinds from around my right thigh, and rips through my pants. As it grows to Godzilla-size proportions, it punches through the corrugated warehouse ceiling, unleashes a roar of bone-quaking triumph, and strikes a terrifying silhouette against the full-moon night.
Celebrity Man Whores scatter like roaches. My dickhead comes down in a slashing arc, turning the bottom half of Tom’s body into gory pulp. Then it wraps Tim and Austin in veiny coils, squeezing them until their eyes go red with burst capillaries, their heads pop off like overripe pimples, and blood fountains from their vertebrae-capped necks. My wiener continues wreaking havoc, crushing limbs and snapping spines, leaving sparking powerlines and broken waterlines in its wake.
That’s what you get, fuckers, for trying to use me as a penis-envy scapegoat!
Kent Wayne wins again! HEH heh heh!
😀
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