Good Shit Lollicock stared at his troops, pacing back and forth slowly. If he had a moustache it would have bristled. The combined strength of the Mexican Air Force was mighty, and he had full faith and confidence that it would prevail against the insurgent San Francisco Hash House Harriers.

 

 

 

“I knew it was the perfect plan,” he started. “Right when I started making it, not even Fucker knows when it all started. We’ve been getting them drunk for years, drunk and stupid. And now… we pounce.”

 

 

 

He drew in a deep breath. “We’ll have to watch out, Tonya Hardon has wiles you boys wouldn’t even dream of. And if Douchicorn and Infinite Butthole get together it would make a creature that would have you quaking in your boots. That’s not to mention the last time I saw Hoseblower wearing a sombrero—you wouldn’t be able to tell him from your own mother if you didn’t look closely.”

 

 

 

He paused in thought. “Some of you might die out there. Some of you might wish you had. Some of you might wish I had. And that’s before Five Angry Inches gets a hold of you.”

 

 

 

He rolled out a blackboard, on which were a plethora of scribbles, two half-finished tic-tac-toe boards, and Wrinklepecker’s name underlined twice. Simultaneously, a white screen rolled down from the nearest tree and a Powerpoint presentation booted up.  Good Shit flicked through twenty slides, all black and white selfies of Dick Simmons, in quick succession.

 

 

 

“The plan is this! Circle Jerk! And not the hasher!” He smiled viciously. “And after they are tired and confused, after The Uniballer seeks for solace in The Perfect Woman and finds Brown Eye instead, after the doggie licks offered to Tuna on Top turn as dry and chafing as Gloryhole’s jockstrap, only then will we pounce. They’ll think they’re being funny, they’ll think the cultural appropriation is harmless, but we’ll see what their bosses think in the morning.”

 

 

 

He paused and frowned. “Well I don’t care that Shaft’s retired.” Another pause. “They can’t all be working for Muff Daddy?”

 

 

 

He rallied after a deep silence. “No matter boys. We’ll go to the news, they won’t be able to hide… what do you mean Wee Wee can control the media with the flick of her finger?”

 

 

 

“Fine, fine, fine.” He pulled out a notepad, ripping off the page that had Backside Banger hand-written in Comic Sans and thumbing over Mouth Down South and Vagina Dentata in one fell swoop. “ABBAH!”

 

 

 

“Deportation is our only solution, my men, and ABBAH is the key. In this climate? With this president? We’ll have him and his confederates out of the country in no time, Udder Moron and Fuck Buddy have unsavory pasts or so I’ve heard, and Big Cock Chains can’t claim refugee status any more now that he’s all healed up. “

 

 

 

“Sure Ru Ru Rimmin is now in deep, deep cover as One And Done. But I’m fairly sure that Uber Luber will out him in no time, and if not Fit Bitch will for sure fall nicely into our plan. But the last remaining piece is Hello Titties…”

 

 

 

“Good Shit?” Dick Ass Mother Fucker made a half-hearted attempt to knock on an elm tree. “It’s time…”

 

 

 

The Raggedy Ann doll slipped slowly off the chair. The soccer ball rocked in the wind atop the steel pot it was sitting on. The plastic drone did not move, but that was mostly because it had no batteries.

 

 

 

Good Shit nodded a dismissal to his troops, raised his banner high, and strode head up and eyes wide open into the fight.