Andrew McAfee · @ThatOtherMcAfee
27th Jan 2017 from TwitLonger
So, @NeKap, I thought you might want to know how dinner went...
So, @NeKap, I thought you might want to know how dinner went with that Twitter Troll from yesterday!
Well, I don't want to tell tales out of school, but to say it was an unmitigated disaster is about as kindly as I can put it.
He did arrive rather punctually, shirt a little rumpled, but hair combed and wearing a tie, and of course, we made him right at home! He made sure to point out his raging boner at the front of his slacks, and, I admit, the subject did overtake the conversation for about two or three minutes, as did his rather obvious anticipation of the evening's planned activities. I had just gotten the potatoes out of the oven (roasted red with rosemary!), so dinner was plated in short order, the wine was opened, and we sat down to a lovely meal and a pleasant dinner conversation.
Well, I suppose that was the point where it all started to break down. He'd gotten through half his chicken and two glasses of wine before--and I kid you not--he broke down in TEARS. And I wish I could say these were tears with some dignity, but no. We're talking full-on tears, snot, and a face that resembled a soggy sponge far more than it already did when he walked in the door. The first few minutes were rather jumbled as the words fell out of his mouth between racking sobs, or possibly it was the shock of my wife's intended rapist that befuddled our ears, but eventually, it seemed to coalesce into a deluge of self-loathing that baffled and alarmed us.
He was a sad and angry and loathsome person, he claimed, a meaningless blight on society of no more moment than a passing butt-rash. He was a broken, wasted shell of a man--no! Not even a man! A dog, he cried, a dog who could only see the world in the shallow shades of power and dominance, between rapists and victims, without joy, without beauty, without nuance or magic. At this point, he trailed off, his face in his hands.
Of course, I tried to comfort him, telling him that there was so much for him to look forward to, most particularly the ravaging and humiliation of my wife, but he threw my comforting pat on the back aside and thrust his hands down his slacks. After a tearful moment of struggle, he produced his raging boner--not a raging boner at all, as we discovered to our shock, but only a slightly underripe banana, which he threw onto the table.
Even that would be impossible for him, he said, for gonhorrea had devoured every last vestige of his manhood, leaving him, as he claimed, "as anatomically correct as a Ken doll". It was a piteous fate, he moaned, to want more than all else to prove a masculinity which did no longer exist.
I admit, I was more taken aback by this than his earlier admissions, and could only stare at the banana on the table, unable now to even form words of comfort. He looked up into my wife's eyes across the table, and what he saw there, I know not, but it And the weight of his own self-loathing seemed to be enough to completely fracture his society. He ripped off his clothes, gibbering memes and alt-right talking points the whole time, revealing the full extent of the grotesqueries wreaked upon him by the Clap, and fled out the door and into the below-freezing night, howling like a baboon.
So, alas, despite his insistence he would most certainly do so, the Twitter Troll did not f@$# my wife last night.
I have no idea what became of him. And I still haven't worked up the nerve to find a glove and pick the banana up off the table.