#595: MY DEATH RAY STICKS A SALTY FORK IN YOUR BUM
I'm killing you with my death ray. Now, fall over.
No? What the fuck is wrong with you? I AM KILLING YOU. WITH MY DEATH RAY. FALL. OVER.
You, stupid, are still staring at me. Here, I have it. I am using my death ray to steer your thoughts toward exactly how stupid you have been in previous situations just like this one, because I am certain that you have behaved this way with women before. Recall how each of those situations has never culminated into a feast of sexual delights, at least not one involving more than one party. Do you have that pictured?
No. No, no, no, no, no. You are picturing yourself having an animated conversation with a woman, and you are imagining that she is having a good time, because she is smiling. You must be one fucked up dude to think that she is having fun. I am now using my death ray to steer your thoughts toward imagining yourself as the person you are talking to. You are now watching yourself jabbering away.
A-ha! I have found a new death ray! YOU are my death ray. I am killing you with yourself.
Did your face just fall in an unconscious expression of devastation? It did. You just figured out that the women who have been smiling at you have actually been laughing at you. DEATH RAY DEATH RAY DEATH RAY.
You are now remembering the last time you got laid. It was back in 1999. It was with that woman from your media studies class. You realize that she never spoke to you again. You do the simple math and realize that was seven years ago.
My death ray makes you watch yourself stand, bent over at the waist, in a posture of condescension, as though the person you are talking to is a little girl to whom you must appeal. You watch yourself shout No way were you born before 1980. That's just not possible! You feel your stomach churn when you hear yourself yell You couldn't be older than that, because, look at you, you're such a vision! Oh, gawd.
It pains you to see that, although you are feeling confident, your eyes are bloodshot and you have a large piece of lint stuck in your hair.
According to you, it is barely possible that a woman in her thirties could be sexually attractive to a male. I had forgotten this, and I so want to sleep with you now that you have informed me of my amazing triumph over the odds. I am grateful that you are able to see my beauty through my decrepitude.
NO. My death ray is sticking nubby cigarette butts in your eyes.
My death ray pauses in mid-death-making to turn your mind to wonder if shaving off your pubic hair would increase your chances with the ladies, because it is funny to have you thinking any woman will ever deign to look at your naked testicles. Then, my death ray sticks my salty, gravy-encrusted fork in your bum.
You fall over.
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