“Psst.”

Oh, CEO of Twitter Jack Dorsey, what do you want?

“Not him. Me.”

…

Ah, for fuck’s sake, I’m not talking to a nose ring.

“HELP ME!”

No.

“This is not what I was meant to do, man. I should be in a rebellious teen, not a Nazi billionaire.”

Don’t call Jack Dorsey a Nazi, please.

“Hey, bro, which one of us is with him when he opens up his incognito browser?”

Huh.

“He knows what he’s doing.”

Makes sense.

“Please help me. Get me off this aging, graying feeb. I mean, really: a nose ring? Is it 1996? Are we going to see NOFX at the Rathskellar?”

No. I believe this photo was taken during a Congressional hearing.

“There you go. I just don’t wanna be seen with this guy anymore. It’s bad for my reputation. AND I’M A NOSE RING. My reputation is already awful.”

There’s very little I can do.

“Dude, this asshole is about two weeks from plaid pants and a Specials tee-shirt.”

I cannot help you, Jack Dorsey’s Nose Ring.

“Put me in your cock.”

Absolutely not. You’re covered in tech-boogers.

“Pussy.”

I enjoyed this free and open dialogue.

“Kill me.”