I lay on my couch, watching “FEMINISM VS LOGIC (OWNED COMPILATION) #8” on my phone, Mountain Dew in hand. Another clip of an outraged SJW presents itself, and I laugh uproariously. The absence of intellect is the pinnacle of modern entertainment for men of culture like myself. In the midst of my glee, the doorbell rings. I do not enjoy my indulgences being interrupted, so this better be important.
I open the door to see a man in a dark blazer and dress pants on my doorstep, probably in his mid-forties. He is overweight, but carries a powerful chest and appears to have a decent build for his age. I always thought he was heavier, for his body was misrepresented by a chubby, red face. His light-coloured hair is too small for his skull, which displays a pair of radiant blue eyes that communicate a manic energy, and I know this man’s manic energy very well. His beloved radio show has enlightened masses across the country to scrutinize the deep state for what it truly is. This man was worth interrupting my indulgences for.
He was none other than Alex Jones.
“Oh, hello Alex,” I said. “What brings you here?”
“I’m seeking to bond with my fans across the country. You in?” He smiled in anticipation.
“I mean… it’s just so much all at once. What did you have in mind?”
“Come, I’ll show you.” He came inside, when I took off his blazer and hung it up. Alex took long strides up the stairs, two steps at a time. I followed him into my bedroom.
We lay on the bed, staring into each other’s eyes. He kept eye contact longer than me, as I would look downwards and reveal my uncertainties. Alex detected this, and after five minutes of being together with him stroking my neckbeard, he initiated conversation.
“Are you ready to do this?”
“I want to, but I don’t have the courage, if that makes any sense. My problem is that I’m straight, and I can’t provide the intimacy in this affair you deserve.”
“Oh don’t worry, we can fix that,” Alex responded, the smile he had since I saw him at the doorway growing no fainter. “Drink this. It doesn’t only work on the frogs” He produced a bottle of water in his hand. I took it and examined the paper sleeve. The scene was a pond laden with bullrushes, lily pads, and algae, although the center of attention was a mass of frogs lumped together with comical, seduced facial expressions. The text read: “Swap Dew: 3X the chemicals of regular water”.
I was so grateful that I could enjoy the privilege of Alex’s sexuality. I screwed off the cap and chugged the liquid, eager to get serious.
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