Sad Is The Man

dill

Sad is the man.

…the man who realizes that he failed to work white male privilege into anything more genital-stimulating than a successful online gaming career.

…that he may have missed the whole point of having a wiener.

What is the point of wiener anymore? What is life?

He shakes his fist.
He cries out to the sky.
Darkness.
Semen drying on his chair.
Look away, he says.
Look away.

***

Make America Great Again.
His hat reveals his dream.
His dream reveals his failures.
Last night’s Taco Bell.
Last year’s condoms.
A thin layer of dust on unopened wrappers.
Microwave popcorn for one.
Alone.

***
He leans back in his chair, he grabs his phone.
Selfie-mode unlocked.
She wants to see this cock.
He plays some Kid Rock to set this lustful mood.
This isn’t the the shot.
He tries again.
Snap, snap.
Out of focus.
Snap.
Is this it?
It’ll have to work, he’s running out of time.
She’s still online.
He shouldn’t make her wait.
She wants it. It’s getting late.
She doesn’t know his name, but
She will call it out in her dreams.
No, it looks small. It’s NOT.
Just one more shot.
Goddammit. MOM.
His mother never knocks.

***

He sits down with his laptop and a chestful of hope.

Hey.
Hey.
Hey, are you there?
Hey.
Hey, I think you’re hot.
Hey.
I never thought you were hot.
You fucking whore.
You’re fat, you get no dick.
You slut.
That pussy is torn up.
Hey.
Hey.
HMU?
Cunt.

He loosens his sweatpants and cries.

***

I go my own way, he declares.
I will not give them my seed.
They will not know the privilege of my company.

That’s right, ungrateful bitches, I will not serve these burgers with you in mind, this is my kingdom. The kingdom of men.

Right swipe.
Right swipe.
Into the night, a desperate right swipe.

You don’t know what you’re missing, and I didn’t even think you were hot, you fat bitch.

Here’s a picture of my dick.  You will never touch it.

Dungeon begins in 3, 2, 1…

***

Bitches are weak, he cries.

A lone tear betrays him.

What he thought was his masculinity glares back at him from the reflection in his computer monitor.

Judging him.

No, you’re the pussy, he says. While contemplating the irony that pussy is all he ever wanted.

Yet the fabric his life is stained with Mt. Dew and failure.

With the dust of a thousand Doritos, pulverized of impotent rage of an end-boss lag-spike.

“Homofags”, he shrieks.
Speech bubbles spew forth from his Female Elf Rogue.
Capital letters. Exclamation marks. Red hot fury.

He logs off.

He weeps.

Bitches.

“MOM, WHEN IS DINNER?”

 

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