You look like an stormtrooper for sexual fascists.
“I serve President Rump, and will make boners great again. I know you want to make boners great again, patriot. But what about your neighbors? Which ones are freaky, and which ones are deaky? You know that deakiness has been forbidden, patriot?”
Stop scaring me.
“We shall ride our tanks made of dicks through the streets, which will flow.”
With blood?
“There’ll be some blood mixed in, sure, I guess.”
I don’t like sexual fascism.
“Of course you do. We’ll tuck you in at night, and then reach under the blankets and do stuff to your crotch.”
You personally?
“Someone with the proper authority over your crotch.”
I’m the only person with authority over my crotch.
“You signed up for Selective Service when you were 18?”
Yes.
“Then your crotch belongs to Northrop Grumman.”
They can’t be trusted with it!
“Neither can you!”
Yeah, okay. Got me there.
“We agree.”
You do have a face under there, right?
“Three or four.”
Nifty. Wanna hold hands?
“I’m seeing an alcoholic furry.”
What?
“BLAAAAAARFFFF. CHHH. CHHH. ChhhhhhhhhMLAAAAAAAAWWWWW.”
Ew.
“Muf muf muf FFFWAAAAAAAAAGGGHHblech. Huh huh huh. I’m good. I’m goBWWWWAAAAAAAAAFF.”
I don’t deserve this.
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