Every Thursday me and the dudes swap dice rolls on a dilapidated mahogany table in south Greensboro. We have adopted the pseudonyms Hotballs, Neckbeard and Creampanter. They dubbed me Creampanter because of the way my ejaculate explodes prematurely upon my tightly crimped Goodwill jeans, whenever even the most remote possibility of sexual excitation occurs. Sam, the leader and backstreet computervangelist, is Hotballs, for the way his pubic hair compacts across his wholly unimpressive frame in a mosslike pattern of sadness. The Neckbeard is an unassuming heavy weight contender for functional alcoholic of the year, with overtones of light racism. (All names and some details have been changed because most of this story is shamefully fabricated to satiate the grocery store perusing summer sale novelites that permeate my Peabody fantasy world.)
Most work, all fail. The congress of egos begins and ends with accounts of masturbatory extrapolations concerning highschool yearbooks and type-casted, silicone automatons of yesteryear’s porncon. We argue over whether Han shot first.
The first time we D&D’d, it was beneath the rain sweltered airducts of an antediluvian split level where Hotballs’ mother dodged rent collectors and milkmen. The basement’s exposed ceiling crawled menacingly with insectoid vermicids and molded studs. That’s when I met Leroy. “Leroy fucking sucks,” said John, a Neckbeard. I couldn’t wait to enjoy the company of one so behind on the evolutionary timetable.
Leroy sucked way hard. In grim candor he sexted unmercifully to his ex-cousin, then retreated into the bathroom to take half quivering bodyshots of George Dickle.
“What’s your tattoo say?”
I pointed to the slithering patchwork of varicose veins that snaked up his ankloids, mistaking them for body art.
Ok, I'm sorry, I can't continue. This article is too disgusting to even satirize anymore.