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Bill! 😂 And here I thought you were inviting me over for a drink, not to provide the refreshments AND the entertainment! 😈😘
Her standing there with a fun smirk on her beautiful face, like she knew something I didn’t. She had no bra and purposely wore a see through shirt. I told her it was unlocked and she was too shy to walk in..
After she entered I gave her a smack on her cute butt. She asked if I was hungry and I instantly knew what she wanted to do.
I told her I was rather thirsty and she took her top off as she walked into my room@lolamayi12345 I did invite you over for a drink. You took it upon yourself to become the refreshments and entertainment 😈
…three raccoons in a trench coat asking if I had a moment to discuss my car’s extended warranty.
…a naked man holding a rotisserie chicken who calmly asked, “Is this the book club?”
slip-and-slide covered in baby oil stretched across the living room floor, ending directly at the feet of a very patient-looking Lola
…Jesus standing on my front lawn wearing a white robe, sandals, and a crown of thorns, operating a leaf blower at 7:03 in the fucking morning.
Not that Jesus.
This was Jesús Hernández, my Mexican landscaper, who happened to look exactly like the guy hanging above my grandmother’s fireplace.
“JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled.
“Sí, señor?”
“Can you turn that damn thing off?”
“Sorry, señor. The leaves, they are everywhere.”
That’s when three black SUVs came screeching around the corner.
Twelve men in tactical gear jumped out.
“ICE! EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND!”
Jesús calmly turned off his leaf blower.
“YOU! ARE YOU AN AMERICAN CITIZEN?”
Jesús smiled.
“I am a citizen of the Kingdom of God.”
The agent blinked.
“Is that in Mexico?”
“No, my son. It is in heaven.”
The agent turned to his supervisor.
“Sir, we’ve got an undocumented extraterrestrial.”
“An alien?”
“Claims he’s from Heaven. No passport. No driver’s license. Doesn’t even have a ZIP code.”
“DEPORT HIM!”
And that’s when twelve federal agents tackled a man dressed as Jesus onto my freshly fertilized lawn.
One got tangled in the leaf blower.
Another pepper-sprayed himself.
A third slipped in dog shit.
Jesús looked toward the sky.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
And suddenly the heavens opened.
Chapter 1: God Has Entered the Chat
Thunder shook the earth.
The clouds parted.
A gigantic face appeared in the sky.
“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU IDIOTS DOING?”
Every bird stopped singing.
Every dog stopped barking.
Somewhere in Washington, a Fox News producer spilled his coffee.
The ICE supervisor looked up.
“WHO SAID THAT?”
“GOD.”
“Do you have identification?”
A lightning bolt vaporized his clipboard.
“DOES THAT WORK?”
All twelve agents immediately shit their pants.
God looked down at the mess.
“UNBELIEVABLE. I GIVE YOU FREE WILL AND YOU USE IT TO TACKLE JESUS WITH A LEAF BLOWER?”
One agent nervously raised his hand.
“Sir, we’re just following orders.”
The sky went completely silent.
“Oh, we’re doing THAT excuse again?”
God sighed.
“I specifically covered this. Several times. There was a whole book.”
Then God pointed toward the agents.
“FROM THIS MOMENT FORWARD, EVERY PERSON YOU TOUCH SHALL INSTANTLY UNDERSTAND THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RIGHT AND WRONG. THEY WILL EXPERIENCE THE SUFFERING THEY HAVE CAUSED OTHERS. THEY WILL UNDERSTAND THE CONSEQUENCES OF THEIR ACTIONS.”
One agent nervously raised his hand.
“Like diversity training?”
“NO, GARY. ACTUAL FUCKING EMPATHY.”
God continued.
“AND EVERY PERSON THEY TOUCH SHALL EXPERIENCE THE SAME AWAKENING. AND EVERY PERSON THEY TOUCH AFTER THAT. UNTIL THE ENTIRE WORLD UNDERSTANDS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN.”
Gary looked at Steve.
“Dude, are we contagious?”
Steve shrugged.
“I think we just got spiritually vaccinated.”
Then Gary accidentally touched Steve’s arm.
Both men froze.
Their eyes widened.
In an instant, each experienced the memories, fears, joys, and suffering of thousands of people whose lives had been affected by their actions.
They saw children crying for their parents.
They saw families torn apart.
They saw the consequences of decisions they’d never questioned.
And for the first time, they understood.
Not because someone told them.
Not because they read it in a book.
They actually felt it.
Gary began crying.
“Steve?”
“Yeah, Gary?”
“I think we’ve been assholes.”
Steve wiped away a tear.
“Massive assholes, Gary.”
They hugged.
Unfortunately, hugging activated the divine transmission again.
“OH GOD!” Gary screamed.
“WHAT NOW?” God replied.
“I CAN FEEL EVERYONE’S FEELINGS!”
“YES, GARY. THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT.”
Chapter 2: Karen Meets Her Maker
Gary and Steve were still trying to process their newfound empathy when a woman came storming out of Starbucks holding a venti caramel macchiato.
She had oversized sunglasses, a Stanley tumbler, and the unmistakable confidence of someone who had never once been told to shut the fuck up.
“EXCUSE ME! I NEED TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER!”
Gary looked at Steve.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The woman marched toward a terrified teenage barista.
“I ORDERED EXTRA CARAMEL! DOES THIS LOOK LIKE EXTRA CARAMEL TO YOU?”
The barista nervously replied, “Ma’am, I put six pumps in there.”
“I ASKED FOR SEVEN! SEVEN! DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW NUMBERS WORK?”
“Ma’am, I can remake it.”
“OH, YOU’LL REMAKE IT! AND I WANT YOUR NAME, YOUR MANAGER’S NAME, AND THE NUMBER FOR CORPORATE!”
Steve whispered, “Gary, I think we found our first civilian.”
Karen spun around.
“EXCUSE ME? ARE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT ME?”
Gary smiled.
“No, ma’am.”
“DON’T YOU MA’AM ME! DO YOU KNOW WHO MY HUSBAND IS?”
Steve shrugged.
“No, but I’m starting to feel sorry for him.”
Karen gasped.
“I WILL HAVE BOTH OF YOU FIRED!”
Gary looked down at his ICE uniform.
“Lady, I don’t even work here.”
“I DON’T CARE! I’LL CALL THE POLICE!”
“Ma’am, we’re federal agents.”
“THEN I’LL CALL YOUR MANAGER!”
Gary looked toward the sky.
“Technically, he’s right up there.”
Karen rolled her eyes.
“OH, GREAT. ANOTHER MAN WHO THINKS HE’S GOD!”
She jabbed Gary in the chest.
ZAP.
Karen froze.
Her sunglasses fell off.
In an instant, she experienced every rude comment, every humiliating confrontation, every innocent employee she’d reduced to tears, and every family dinner she’d ruined by demanding to speak to the restaurant manager.
She saw her husband sitting silently at the dinner table.
Her children exchanging exhausted looks.
The cashier she’d screamed at over an expired coupon.
The waitress she’d made cry because the ice cubes were too small.
Her face crumpled.
“Oh my God.”
Gary nodded.
“Yep. That’s him.”
Karen began sobbing.
“WOW. I HAVE BEEN SUCH A BITCH.”
Steve nodded sympathetically.
“Like, professionally.”
Karen turned toward the teenage barista.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry! You’ve been standing here for eight hours dealing with people like me, and I’m screaming at you over one pump of caramel!”
The barista looked stunned.
“It’s okay, ma’am.”
“NO! IT’S NOT OKAY! I’VE BEEN AN ENTITLED, SELFISH, INSUFFERABLE ASSHOLE!”
Gary whispered to Steve.
“Damn. She’s really getting the full download.”
Karen grabbed the barista’s hand.
ZAP.
The barista froze.
Then burst into tears.
“Oh my God. I’ve been judging customers without knowing what they’re going through!”
Karen hugged her.
The barista hugged Gary.
Gary hugged Steve.
Steve accidentally bumped into a man walking past with a briefcase.
ZAP.
The man froze.
“Oh my God. I’ve been underpaying my employees!”
He grabbed his phone.
“I’m giving everyone raises!”
And that’s when Peter Thiel walked around the corner.
Chapter 3: Peter Thiel Has a Very Uncomfortable Conversation With God
Peter Thiel was walking toward a waiting black SUV when he recognized the businessman holding the briefcase.
“Richard! There you are. I’ve been trying to reach you. We need to discuss the next phase of our plan for world domination.”
Richard stared at him.
“Peter, I don’t think I want to dominate the world anymore.”
Peter blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been thinking. What if we just made the world better?”
Peter looked genuinely concerned.
“Richard, are you having a stroke?”
“No, Peter. I think I’ve finally understood something. People matter.”
Peter slowly looked around.
“Did someone put something in your coffee?”
Richard grabbed Peter’s hand.
“Peter, you need to see this.”
ZAP.
Peter froze.
His eyes widened.
And suddenly he experienced the lives of ordinary people.
Workers struggling to pay rent.
Parents choosing between medicine and groceries.
People losing jobs while executives celebrated record profits.
He saw an entire economy where people had somehow convinced themselves that accumulating more money than they could ever spend was the ultimate measure of success.
He saw himself sitting in meetings discussing market domination while somebody in another room was wondering how to afford daycare.
Peter staggered backward.
“Oh, fuck.”
Richard nodded.
“Yeah.”
Peter looked down at his hands.
“Oh, this is not good.”
“What?”
“I think I’ve developed a conscience.”
Richard smiled.
“Congratulations!”
“No, Richard. You don’t understand. I have meetings scheduled.”
Peter looked toward the sky.
“GOD?”
The clouds parted.
“YES, PETER?”
“Am I going to prison?”
God hesitated.
“EHHHHHH.”
Peter looked horrified.
“WHAT DOES EHHHHHH MEAN?”
“IT MEANS I’M NOT REALLY SURE ABOUT YOU, PETER.”
Peter swallowed.
“Can we discuss this?”
“YOU’RE NOT BEYOND REDEMPTION. BUT YOU’VE GOT SOME SERIOUS THINKING TO DO.”
Peter nodded nervously.
“Okay. What should I do?”
God smiled.
“GO TALK TO ELON.”
Peter blinked.
“Elon Musk?”
“YES.”
“Why?”
“BECAUSE I WANT TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN TWO BILLIONAIRES DEVELOP EMPATHY AT THE SAME TIME.”
Peter looked concerned.
“Is that safe?”
God shrugged.
“WE’RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT.”
Peter pulled out his phone.
“Driver?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring the car around immediately.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
Peter took a deep breath.
“WE MUST GO SEE ELON.”
“Is this about taking over the world again?”
Peter paused.
“No. Apparently we’re going to save it.”
Chapter 4: Elon Musk Discovers Feelings
Elon Musk was sitting in a conference room surrounded by engineers, executives, and a giant screen displaying the number of people who had viewed his latest post.
Peter burst through the door.
“ELON!”
Elon looked up.
“Peter! Perfect timing. I’m working on a plan to automate approximately ninety percent of the human workforce.”
Peter stared at him.
“Why?”
Elon blinked.
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why are we trying to replace everybody?”
Elon looked confused.
“Because machines are more efficient.”
“But what happens to the people?”
Elon shrugged.
“They can learn to code.”
Peter sighed.
“Elon, I need you to touch my hand.”
Elon looked suspicious.
“Peter, we’ve talked about boundaries.”
“JUST TOUCH MY FUCKING HAND.”
Elon reluctantly reached out.
ZAP.
His entire body froze.
His eyes widened.
He experienced the exhaustion of workers putting in twelve-hour shifts.
He experienced the anxiety of employees worried about layoffs.
He experienced the fear of families who couldn’t afford healthcare.
He saw people working two jobs while billionaires competed to see who could launch the biggest rocket.
He saw the difference between building technology to improve humanity and building technology simply to become richer than everybody else.
And then he saw himself.
Really saw himself.
Elon collapsed into a chair.
“Oh my God.”
Peter nodded.
“Yep.”
Elon stared at his hands.
“I’VE BEEN SUCH A FUCKING SCUMBAG.”
Peter sat beside him.
“Welcome to the club.”
Elon began crying.
“I’ve been treating the entire planet like a video game.”
Peter nodded.
“And we’ve been keeping score with money.”
Elon wiped his eyes.
“That’s exactly what it was. Money was just points.”
Peter sighed.
“We already had enough to live a thousand lifetimes.”
Elon looked horrified.
“And we kept trying to get more.”
They sat silently for a moment.
Then Elon looked up.
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“Why the fuck did we support Trump?”
Peter thought about it.
“Money?”
Elon nodded.
“Power?”
“Probably.”
“Influence?”
“Definitely.”
Elon shook his head.
“Jesus Christ. We were trying to get richer.”
Peter nodded.
“Which is pretty fucking stupid when you already have more money than you could possibly spend.”
Elon stared into space.
“And the guy was selling sneakers and cryptocurrency while we were trying to build the future.”
Peter sighed.
“Yeah. In retrospect, that probably should’ve been a warning sign.”
Elon grabbed his phone.
“I’m calling Larry.”
Chapter 5: The Billionaire Group Chat From Hell
Larry Ellison answered on the third ring.
“Elon! Peter! What’s going on?”
Elon spoke quickly.
“Larry, we’ve had a revelation.”
Larry sighed.
“Is this another cryptocurrency?”
“No, Larry. We’ve developed empathy.”
Silence.
Then Larry laughed.
“Good one.”
Peter leaned forward.
“No, seriously. We realized we’ve been behaving like selfish assholes.”
Larry paused.
“Are you guys on drugs?”
Elon shook his head.
“Larry, just come over.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re giving away our fortunes.”
Another long silence.
“I’m sorry. You’re doing WHAT?”
“We’re keeping enough to operate our businesses, invest in innovation, and hire people. The rest is going toward helping humanity.”
Larry laughed nervously.
“Okay, which one of you has been kidnapped?”
An hour later, Larry arrived.
Peter shook his hand.
ZAP.
Larry froze.
His eyes widened.
He experienced the struggles of workers, families, patients, teachers, and millions of ordinary people.
Then he looked at Elon.
“Oh, fuck.”
Elon nodded.
“Yep.”
Larry sat down.
“I have so much money.”
Peter nodded.
“It’s ridiculous.”
Larry looked horrified.
“I own things I don’t even remember buying.”
Elon sighed.
“I bought a social media company.”
Peter looked at him.
“We know, Elon.”
Larry shook his head.
“And we kept supporting politicians because we thought they’d help us get richer.”
Elon nodded.
“That’s the craziest part. We were already rich.”
Larry stared at the ceiling.
“Why the fuck did we need more?”
Peter shrugged.
“Keeping score.”
Elon nodded.
“Exactly. Billionaire high scores.”
Larry sighed.
“We turned capitalism into an arcade game.”
Elon suddenly brightened.
“Wait. What if we used our money to actually improve people’s lives?”
Peter smiled.
“Now you’re getting it.”
Larry nodded.
“We could build hospitals.”
Elon added, “Affordable housing.”
Peter said, “Schools. Research. Infrastructure.”
Larry leaned forward.
“And hire people.”
Elon nodded.
“Lots of people.”
Peter smiled.
“Pay them well.”
Larry looked stunned.
“Give them benefits.”
Elon grinned.
“And time off.”
All three men stared at one another.
Then burst out laughing.
“HOLY SHIT! WE’VE INVENTED BEING DECENT HUMAN BEINGS!”
From the heavens came a familiar voice.
“CONGRATULATIONS, BOYS. IT ONLY TOOK YOU SEVERAL HUNDRED BILLION DOLLARS TO FIGURE IT OUT.”
Chapter 6: The Great Billionaire Meltdown
Within hours, the three men announced something nobody had ever expected.
They were giving away the overwhelming majority of their personal fortunes.
Not to political campaigns.
Not to vanity projects.
Not to foundations that spent ninety percent of their budgets on galas and commemorative plaques.
They were funding healthcare, housing, education, scientific research, and programs to help people build better lives.
They retained enough ownership and capital to keep their companies operating, invest in new technology, and expand employment.
And then they started hiring.
Like fucking crazy.
Tesla announced thousands of new jobs.
SpaceX expanded its workforce.
Oracle began hiring engineers, support staff, and researchers.
Other companies followed.
A billionaire who had spent twenty years trying to eliminate labor costs suddenly announced:
“We’re going to hire more people and pay them better.”
His CFO fainted.
Another billionaire announced that employees would receive a meaningful share of the profits.
Wall Street analysts began crying.
A third billionaire announced that executive compensation would be tied to employee well-being.
Three investment bankers had to be hospitalized.
Then the awakening reached the rest of the billionaire class.
One by one, they experienced the same revelation.
They looked at their bank accounts.
Then at the world.
Then back at their bank accounts.
And realized how absurd the entire game had become.
A billionaire called his accountant.
“How much money do I actually need?”
The accountant replied, “Sir, you could spend a million dollars every day for the rest of your life and still die with billions.”
The billionaire stared at him.
“Then why the fuck am I still trying to make more?”
The accountant shrugged.
“Honestly, sir, I have no idea.”
The billionaire shook his hand.
ZAP.
The accountant immediately began crying.
“I’ve been helping rich people avoid taxes for thirty years!”
The billionaire hugged him.
“It’s okay, buddy. We’re going to fix that too.”
Across the planet, billionaires began copying one another.
Like monkeys.
One donated billions.
Another donated more.
A third announced he was funding universal healthcare in an entire country.
A fourth tried to outdo him by funding clean drinking water for millions of people.
Suddenly, the billionaire competition wasn’t about who had the biggest yacht.
It was about who could help the most people.
Elon called Peter.
“Peter, Larry just funded a thousand new schools.”
Peter replied, “Well, shit. I just funded two thousand.”
Elon paused.
“I’m building hospitals.”
Larry joined the call.
“I’m building hospitals AND schools.”
Peter laughed.
“Look at us. We’re still competitive assholes.”
Elon nodded.
“Yeah, but now humanity wins.”
God looked down from heaven.
“FINALLY. YOU IDIOTS FOUND A USEFUL WAY TO KEEP SCORE.”
Chapter 7: The Ones Who Couldn’t Be Enlightened
But something strange was happening.
Not everyone was changing.
Most people experienced the awakening instantly.
Even people who had done terrible things could experience remorse, recognize their mistakes, and begin making amends.
But a small number remained completely unaffected.
They could be touched by hundreds of enlightened people.
Nothing happened.
No empathy.
No remorse.
No understanding.
They were immune.
And God knew exactly why.
“THESE ARE THE ONES WHO HAVE WILLINGLY GIVEN THEMSELVES TO SATAN.”
Gary looked up.
“Wait. Like actual Satan?”
“YES, GARY.”
“With the horns and pitchfork?”
“HE DOESN’T ACTUALLY HAVE A PITCHFORK. THAT’S MARKETING.”
God continued.
“THESE PEOPLE KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RIGHT AND WRONG. THEY SIMPLY DON’T CARE. THEY HAVE CHOSEN POWER, CRUELTY, AND THEIR OWN SELF-INTEREST OVER HUMANITY.”
Steve raised his hand.
“So what happens to them?”
God smiled.
“OH, THEY’RE ABOUT TO HAVE A VERY BAD WEEK.”
The entire enlightened population could suddenly recognize them.
Not by their politics.
Not by their religion.
Not by their nationality.
But by the complete absence of compassion.
The world’s most powerful people began discovering that their power depended on ordinary people continuing to obey them.
And those ordinary people had just stopped.
Chapter 8: The McDictator Meal and the World’s Most Awkward Arrest
Meanwhile, Donald Trump was sitting in the Oval Office with Vladimir Putin, negotiating a groundbreaking fast-food collaboration.
“Vladimir, we’re talking about the greatest chicken sandwich ever created. KFC chicken. McDonald’s buns. Tremendous buns. Nobody knows buns like I know buns.”
Putin stared at him.
“Donald, we are supposed to be discussing geopolitics.”
“We are. This is geopolitical chicken.”
Trump dipped a McNugget into mashed potatoes.
“I’m calling it the McDictator Meal. Comes with twelve nuggets, a biscuit, and absolutely no accountability.”
Putin nodded thoughtfully.
“In Russia, we also enjoy no accountability.”
Suddenly, the doors burst open.
Six Secret Service agents walked in, accompanied by several military officers.
“Mr. President, we’re going to need you to come with us.”
Trump laughed.
“Very funny. Is this about the chicken?”
“No, sir. You’re under arrest.”
Putin slowly put down his sandwich.
“Excuse me?”
Trump stood up.
“YOU CAN’T ARREST ME! I’M THE PRESIDENT!”
One agent smiled.
“Sir, we know.”
Trump blinked.
“You know what?”
“Everything.”
Putin stood up.
“Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Yes, Mr. Putin. We know everything about you too.”
Putin’s face hardened.
“You should be very careful. People who cross me have unfortunate accidents. I suggest you stay away from windows. And staircases. And I certainly wouldn’t recommend flying anywhere.”
The agents looked at one another.
Then burst out laughing.
“HAHAHAHA! Holy shit! He’s still doing it!”
One agent wiped tears from his eyes.
“Vladimir, you stupid bastard. Don’t you get it? Nobody’s afraid of you anymore!”
Putin stared at him.
“What?”
“Your generals? Enlightened. Your security services? Enlightened. Your oligarch buddies? They’re currently donating their yachts to charity.”
Another agent chimed in.
“And your poison guy? He just enrolled in culinary school. Says he wants to make food that doesn’t kill people for a change.”
Trump slammed his fist on the desk.
“WHERE’S MY MILITARY?”
And that’s when Pete Hegseth came bursting through the door.
His hair was perfect.
His tie was crooked.
He was carrying a bottle of bourbon and a copy of the Constitution that appeared to have never been opened.
“MR. PRESIDENT! I’VE GOT THIS!”
Trump smiled.
“PETE! THANK GOD! FINALLY, SOMEONE WITH BALLS!”
Hegseth pointed at the agents.
“YOU PEOPLE ARE COMMITTING TREASON! I’LL HAVE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU EXECUTED BY FIRING SQUAD! LIVE ON TELEVISION! PRIME TIME! FULL MILITARY HONORS!”
The agents stared at him.
One slowly raised his pinky finger to the corner of his mouth.
“Riiiiiiight.”
Another agent whispered, “Did this guy just threaten us with a televised firing squad?”
A third nodded.
“Yep.”
“Does he know the military is enlightened?”
“Apparently not.”
Hegseth puffed out his chest.
“I AM THE SECRETARY OF WAR!”
The Secret Service director smiled.
“Actually, Pete, we’ve got a little problem with that.”
“WHAT PROBLEM?”
“Well, remember when Donald promised no more wars?”
Hegseth nodded.
“OF COURSE!”
The director looked at Trump.
“Yeah. He lied.”
The entire room gasped.
One agent dropped his coffee.
Another clutched his chest.
Someone in the back whispered, “A politician? Lying?”
A third agent shook his head.
“Jesus Christ. Next you’re going to tell me water is wet.”
Trump pointed at the director.
“FAKE NEWS! I NEVER SAID THAT!”
The director sighed.
“Donald, everybody knows. That’s kind of the whole point of the awakening.”
He turned back to Hegseth.
“And here’s the other problem, Pete.”
“WHAT?”
“THERE ARE NO MORE WARS.”
Hegseth blinked.
“What do you mean, no more wars?”
“Exactly what I said. No more wars. Everybody’s enlightened.”
“But… but… I’m the Secretary of WAR!”
The director shrugged.
“Congratulations. You’re the Secretary of Nothing.”
Hegseth looked horrified.
“WHAT ABOUT THE PENTAGON?”
“Still there.”
“THE GENERALS?”
“Enlightened.”
“THE SOLDIERS?”
“Enlightened.”
“THE MISSILES?”
“Being dismantled.”
“THE TANKS?”
“Some are being converted into playground equipment.”
Hegseth staggered backward.
“YOU CAN’T DO THAT! WE NEED WAR!”
The director tilted his head.
“Why?”
Hegseth opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“BECAUSE… BECAUSE…”
He looked desperately at Trump.
Trump shrugged.
“Pete, I’m trying to save the chicken deal.”
The director smiled.
“See, Pete? That’s the problem. You’ve spent your entire career preparing for war. And now nobody wants one.”
Hegseth looked around.
“But what am I supposed to do?”
One agent suggested, “Have you considered landscaping?”
Another added, “There’s a guy named Jesús who could probably use some help.”
Hegseth screamed.
“THIS IS AN ILLEGAL COUP!”
The director replied, “Pete, God’s running things now.”
“WHO APPOINTED HIM?”
The room went silent.
Then everyone burst out laughing.
One officer walked over.
“Come on, Pete. Your ride’s here.”
Hegseth attempted a dramatic martial arts move he’d apparently learned watching television.
It did not go well.
He tripped over a chair, banged his knee against the desk, and fell face-first into the carpet.
“MY KNEE!”
One officer sighed.
“Somebody get him an ice pack.”
The other looked down.
“Make that two. He seems to have injured his ego too.”
They picked him up and escorted him toward the waiting paddy wagon.
Hegseth continued screaming.
“YOU’LL ALL BE COURT-MARTIALED!”
An officer replied, “Pete, there are no more wars.”
“THAT DOESN’T MEAN THERE’S NO MORE MILITARY JUSTICE!”
“Actually, Pete, the military has decided to focus on disaster relief, rebuilding infrastructure, and helping people.”
Hegseth looked physically ill.
“HELPING PEOPLE?”
“Yeah. Weird concept, huh?”
They tossed him into the back of the van.
Trump looked horrified.
“YOU CAN’T JUST ARREST US! WE DEMAND A TRIAL!”
The Secret Service director nodded.
“Normally, yes. But this particular facility is under divine jurisdiction.”
Putin crossed his arms.
“I demand international tribunal.”
“God’s already reviewed your case.”
Trump pointed at the director.
“I WANT MY SUPREME COURT JUSTICES!”
The director smiled.
“Oh, you’ll get them.”
Trump relaxed.
“Good. Very good. Finally, somebody understands.”
“They’re going to the same prison.”
Trump froze.
“WHAT?”
“Several of them have already been assigned bunks.”
“THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!”
Putin leaned forward.
“You cannot simply decide guilt without trial.”
The director shrugged.
“God already decided.”
Trump screamed.
“YOU’RE JUST FOLLOWING ORDERS?”
The director smiled.
“Actually, Donald, that’s a very interesting choice of words.”
He paused.
“We’re following God’s orders now.”
Putin looked toward the window.
Then the staircase.
Then the ceiling.
For the first time in his life, he realized that threatening people wasn’t going to work.
“Where are you taking us?” he whispered.
The director smiled.
“Somewhere special.”
Trump demanded a limousine.
Putin demanded diplomatic immunity.
Hegseth demanded another ice pack.
All three were escorted into the same prison transport van.
Trump looked at the metal benches.
“This is disgusting. Where’s the leather?”
An officer slammed the door.
“Welcome to economy class.”
Then came a suspicious noise.
Followed by a suspicious smell.
Trump had shit his pants.
Putin looked disgusted.
“Donald, control yourself.”
Then Putin shit his pants too.
Hegseth looked at both of them.
“Jesus Christ, what is that smell?”
From somewhere above Washington, God’s voice echoed:
“I HEARD THAT.”
Chapter 9: The Great Roundup
Across the planet, the remaining agents of Satan discovered something terrifying.
Their armies wouldn’t obey them.
Their police forces wouldn’t protect them.
Their propaganda stopped working.
Their followers had developed empathy.
And empathy, it turned out, was absolutely devastating to the authoritarian business model.
A dictator ordered his soldiers to arrest protesters.
The soldiers looked at the protesters.
Then at their commander.
Then back at the protesters.
“Sir, they’re just asking for food and medicine.”
“ARREST THEM!”
“Why don’t we just give them food and medicine?”
The dictator screamed.
“THAT’S NOT HOW THIS WORKS!”
The soldiers shrugged.
“It is now.”
Within days, the world’s remaining tyrants, warlords, cartel bosses, and corrupt officials found themselves surrounded.
Not by angry mobs.
By millions of people who simply refused to participate in cruelty anymore.
They were peacefully detained.
Kim Jong Un was arrested while inspecting a missile.
Xi Jinping was escorted out of a meeting.
Erdoğan was removed from his presidential office.
Taliban commanders were detained by their own soldiers.
Iranian and Saudi officials appeared alongside cartel leaders, Russian oligarchs, and an assortment of powerful people who had spent decades making life miserable for others.
The president of El Salvador arrived looking particularly confused.
“Where am I?”
A guard replied, “You’re about to discover what it’s like on the other side of the prison bars.”
Trump’s cabinet began arriving.
One by one.
Some were still holding briefing folders.
One was carrying a half-eaten sandwich.
Another demanded to speak to management.
And then everyone looked around.
They were standing inside the largest prison ever constructed.
Its name was:
THE DIVINE SUPERMAX CORRECTIONAL FACILITY FOR SCUMBAG LEADERS WHO DISOBEYED GOD’S TEACHINGS.
Population: Increasing.
Release date: Whenever God feels like it.
Chapter 10: God Empties Hell
But God wasn’t finished.
He looked down at the prison.
“YOU KNOW WHAT? WE’RE GOING TO NEED MORE INMATES.”
Saint Peter appeared beside him.
“More, Lord?”
“YES. BRING BACK THE CLASSICS.”
Peter opened a massive book.
“Which ones?”
“ALL THE ASSHOLES.”
And with a thunderclap, the gates of Hell opened.
Out walked Adolf Hitler.
Joseph Stalin.
Pol Pot.
Idi Amin.
Saddam Hussein.
Vlad the Impaler.
Genghis Khan.
Caligula.
Ivan the Terrible.
Jeffrey Dahmer.
John Wayne Gacy.
Ted Bundy.
And, for reasons nobody could explain, Hannibal Lecter.
Saint Peter looked confused.
“Lord, Hannibal Lecter is fictional.”
God shrugged.
“SO WAS HALF THE SHIT THESE PEOPLE BELIEVED. BRING HIM ANYWAY.”
Hannibal adjusted his tie.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I do hope the dining accommodations are acceptable.”
Dahmer smiled.
“What’s for dinner?”
Every other inmate immediately backed away.
God pointed at the assembled crowd.
“YOU HAVE ALL SPENT YOUR LIVES MAKING OTHER PEOPLE MISERABLE. NOW YOU GET TO EXPERIENCE WHAT IT’S LIKE TO LIVE TOGETHER.”
Hitler raised his hand.
“Will there be separate housing?”
“NO.”
Stalin raised his hand.
“Can we organize the labor?”
“NO.”
Trump raised his hand.
“Can I have a private suite?”
“NO.”
Putin raised his hand.
“Can I have a private army?”
“NO.”
Dahmer raised his hand.
“Can I have a roommate?”
God paused.
“ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT.”
Chapter 11: Welcome to Supermax
The prison warden stepped forward.
His name was Frank.
Frank was a seven-foot-tall angel with mirrored sunglasses, a clipboard, and the emotional warmth of a DMV employee on a Monday morning.
“WELCOME TO DIVINE SUPERMAX.”
Trump raised his hand.
“Excuse me. Is this a federal facility? Because I have certain arrangements.”
Frank smiled.
“YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE YOUR ACCOMMODATIONS.”
“Presidential suite?”
“BUNK BED.”
“Private bathroom?”
“COMMUNAL.”
“Golf course?”
“WE HAVE A PATCH OF DIRT AND A BROKEN RAKE.”
Putin raised his hand.
“Can I make phone call?”
“TO WHO?”
“My lawyer.”
“YOUR LAWYER IS IN CELL BLOCK C.”
Everyone received the same uniform.
Pink underwear.
Pink socks.
Pink flip-flops.
And a pink T-shirt reading:
I WAS A VERY IMPORTANT PERSON UNTIL GOD GOT INVOLVED.
Hitler looked at his underwear.
“This is an outrage!”
Frank shrugged.
“You’re going to have a rough time here, Adolf.”
Trump demanded a different color.
“I don’t do pink. Terrible color. Very weak.”
Frank handed him a brighter pair.
“HOT PINK IT IS.”
Chapter 12: Prison Politics
Within forty-eight hours, the inmates had organized into gangs.
The Russians formed the Eastern Bloc Boys.
The Nazis formed a gang but immediately began fighting over who was sufficiently Aryan.
Stalin formed the People’s Revolutionary Commissary Committee.
The Mexican cartel bosses formed the Taco Tuesday Syndicate.
The California gangs claimed the basketball court.
The East Coast gangs claimed the weight room.
Genghis Khan formed the Mongol Horde, but nobody would lend him a horse.
Vlad the Impaler started a gang called the Pointy Boys.
Hannibal Lecter opened a restaurant.
Nobody ate there.
Trump tried to organize his own gang.
“It’s going to be the greatest gang. People are saying they’ve never seen a gang like this.”
Unfortunately, his only recruit was a confused former deputy minister from Belarus.
Putin tried to recruit him.
Kim Jong Un offered him half a pudding cup.
The deputy minister requested solitary confinement.
Chapter 13: The Underground Economy
The prison developed a thriving black market.
Cigarettes were currency.
Ramen noodles were currency.
Toilet paper was currency.
And for reasons nobody understood, pudding cups became the prison’s reserve currency.
Kim Jong Un controlled the pudding market.
He called himself the Supreme Leader of Snacks.
Stalin tried to nationalize the pudding.
Putin tried to steal it.
Trump launched a cryptocurrency called TRUMP PUDDING COIN.
It collapsed within seventeen minutes.
Meanwhile, the Mexican cartel bosses had taken over the underground snack distribution network.
They smuggled hot sauce, candy bars, and instant coffee through the laundry room.
Genghis Khan attempted to conquer the commissary.
He was defeated by a seventy-year-old cafeteria worker named Doris.
Doris had worked in public schools for forty years.
She feared nothing.
Chapter 14: The Cannibal Problem
The biggest problem in prison wasn’t the gangs.
It was Hannibal Lecter and Jeffrey Dahmer.
They had become roommates.
Not because Frank thought it was a good idea.
But because God thought it would be funny.
Hannibal immediately began inviting inmates to dinner.
“Donald, would you care to join us for a little supper?”
Trump looked suspicious.
“What are we having?”
“Something exquisite. Very rare.”
“Steak?”
“Something like that.”
Putin grabbed Trump’s arm.
“Donald. Do not go.”
“Why?”
“He eats people.”
Trump paused.
“Does he have ketchup?”
Putin dragged him away.
Meanwhile, Dahmer had started a prison cooking club.
Nobody joined.
He posted a sign:
FREE DINNER. BRING YOURSELF.
Frank immediately shut it down.
“JEFFREY, WE’VE TALKED ABOUT THIS.”
Dahmer sighed.
“Can’t a guy have a hobby?”
“NOT THAT FUCKING HOBBY.”
Chapter 15: Prison Life Gets Worse
The inmates quickly discovered that Divine Supermax was worse than anything they’d ever imagined.
The lights never went off.
The toilets had no privacy.
The showers were communal.
The food was terrible.
And the loudspeakers played ABBA, children’s birthday songs, and Baby Shark twenty-four hours a day.
Every time someone complained, the speakers played “It’s a Small World” for another six hours.
Hitler tried to organize a protest.
Stalin tried to suppress it.
Pol Pot tried to abolish education.
Genghis Khan tried to conquer the laundry room.
Vlad the Impaler kept sharpening toothbrushes.
And Trump kept trying to sell naming rights to the prison toilets.
Frank returned to God’s office.
“Sir, we’ve had seventeen gang fights, forty-three attempted shankings with sharpened toothbrushes, and someone keeps stealing the toilet paper.”
“WHO?”
“Putin.”
“WHY?”
“He says it’s a strategic resource.”
“AND DONALD?”
“He’s been trying to sell naming rights to the prison toilets.”
God rubbed his temples.
“I CREATED THE UNIVERSE IN SIX DAYS, FRANK. HOW ARE THESE PEOPLE MAKING ME REGRET IT?”
Chapter 16: The Divine Reality Check
Eventually, the inmates demanded a meeting with God.
Trump spoke first.
“This is very unfair. Horrible accommodations. Terrible food. And the underwear? Frankly, very disrespectful.”
Putin nodded.
“We demand humane treatment.”
God stared at them.
Then he laughed.
Not a little chuckle.
A full-blown, thunder-shaking belly laugh that caused three earthquakes and knocked Kim Jong Un off his bunk.
“YOU WANT HUMANE TREATMENT?”
“Yes!” they shouted.
“INTERESTING.”
God leaned forward.
“YOU HAD ENTIRE COUNTRIES. ARMIES. WEALTH. POWER. AND MILLIONS OF PEOPLE DEPENDING ON YOUR DECISIONS.”
The room went quiet.
“YOU COULD HAVE MADE THEIR LIVES BETTER.”
Nobody spoke.
“INSTEAD, YOU MADE OTHER PEOPLE LIVE WITH FEAR, SUFFERING, AND THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR EGO.”
Trump raised his hand.
“Can we negotiate?”
“NO, DONALD.”
“But I’m a tremendous negotiator.”
“YOU TRIED TO BRIBE SAINT PETER WITH A GIFT CARD.”
“It was a very generous gift card.”
God sighed.
“RATHER THAN WAITING FOR YOU TO DIE AND SENDING YOU TO HELL, I’VE DECIDED YOU SHOULD EXPERIENCE A LITTLE OF THE WORLD YOU CREATED FOR OTHERS.”
Putin looked concerned.
“For how long?”
“UNTIL YOU LEARN.”
Kim Jong Un whispered, “Does anyone know how long that takes?”
Frank looked at him.
“Buddy, I’ve seen your disciplinary file. You might want to get comfortable.”
Chapter 17: Heaven on Earth
Meanwhile, back on Earth, humanity was experiencing something nobody had ever imagined.
People genuinely understood one another.
Not because they agreed on everything.
They still argued about sports.
They still argued about pizza toppings.
They still argued about whether the toilet paper should roll over or under.
But nobody wanted to hurt anyone anymore.
Countries began cooperating.
Healthcare became accessible to everyone.
Education was free.
People stopped going bankrupt because they got sick.
Scientists worked together.
Children were fed.
Homelessness plummeted.
Wars ended.
The billionaire class had transformed itself into the world’s most competitive charity organization.
Elon Musk was building hospitals.
Peter Thiel was funding medical research.
Larry Ellison was building schools.
Other billionaires were racing to outdo them.
And for the first time in history, the competition was actually benefiting humanity.
Elon called Peter.
“Peter, I just funded another hundred hospitals.”
Peter replied, “Well, shit. I just funded two hundred.”
Larry joined the call.
“Amateurs. I’m building an entire university system.”
Elon laughed.
“Look at us. We’re still trying to win.”
Peter smiled.
“Yeah, but now everybody wins.”
God looked down.
“FINALLY. CAPITALISM WITH A FUCKING CONSCIENCE.”
Even the cable news networks changed.
CNN started reporting good news.
MSNBC began covering neighborhood gardening competitions.
Fox News was no longer available on Earth.
Instead, God had made it the only television channel in prison.
The inmates were forced to watch twenty-four-hour reruns of their own interviews.
Trump was delighted for the first seven minutes.
Then the channel switched to uninterrupted fact-checking.
He screamed for the warden.
“FRANK! THIS IS CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT!”
Frank shrugged.
“Sorry, Donald. God’s orders.”
And, in perhaps the greatest miracle of all, people stopped arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
God had finally settled the issue.
“EAT WHATEVER YOU WANT. IT’S FUCKING PIZZA.”
Epilogue: The Leaf Blower
A few weeks later, I opened my front door.
There was Jesús Hernández.
Same robe.
Same sandals.
Same leaf blower.
“Morning, señor!”
“Jesus Christ, Jesús! Where the hell have you been?”
He smiled.
“Busy, señor.”
“Was that really God?”
“Sí.”
“And all those world leaders?”
“Still in prison.”
“How’s that going?”
Jesús shook his head.
“Not good, señor. Putin got shanked with a toothbrush. Kim Jong Un started a black market for pudding. And Trump keeps demanding to speak to the manager.”
“Who’s the manager?”
Jesús pointed toward the sky.
Thunder rumbled.
We both looked up.
God’s voice echoed gently across the neighborhood.
“JESÚS?”
“Sí, Padre?”
“WOULD YOU PLEASE TURN OFF THAT GODDAMN LEAF BLOWER? IT’S SEVEN IN THE FUCKING MORNING.”
Jesús nodded.
“Sorry, Padre.”
He switched it off.
For the first time in human history, there was peace on Earth.
No war.
No hatred.
No dictators.
No leaf blowers before 9 a.m.
And somewhere inside Divine Supermax, Donald Trump sat in pink underwear eating cold beans while Putin tried to convince Kim Jong Un to join his gang.
The loudspeakers crackled.
“Attention inmates. Tonight’s entertainment will be an eight-hour documentary on empathy, followed by a mandatory group discussion about accountability.”
Trump raised his hand.
“Can we watch Fox News instead?”
God’s voice thundered through the prison.
“DONALD, THIS IS HELL.”
And the whole world lived happily ever after.
Except Frank.
Frank needed a fucking vacation.
The Lady in red.
She was looking around furtively and seemed completely whipped. I let her in and she collapsed in my arms. She had enough strength to whisper “it’s happening “.ES standing on my porch wearing a ringmaster’s jacket, holding a clipboard, and dragging a twelve-foot inflatable boob across my lawn.
“ES? What the hell are you doing here? And how did you find out where I live? Are you stalking me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Stalkers don’t bring spreadsheets.”
“That’s exactly what an organized stalker would bring.”
“I’m organizing Boobiefest! The world’s first international carnival celebrating the ANR community! And I need your help!”
“Why me?”
“Because you seem like a natural leader.”
“ES, I once got into an argument with a self-checkout machine and lost.”
“Exactly! You have experience dealing with difficult people.”
He opened a giant binder.
“We’re going to have games, rides, food trucks, carnival booths, bouncy houses, a petting zoo, celebrity musical guests, and the world’s largest inflatable breast!”
I stared at him.
“Why don’t we just organize something at Disney World? People could hang out, ride roller coasters, have dinner, and nobody would have to explain a giant inflatable nipple to the fire marshal.”
ES looked horrified.
“WHAT? ARE YOU CRAZY? Disney? No! We’re gonna have all kinds of fun! We’re even gonna have DONKEYS!”
“Donkeys?”
“Yeah! Haven’t you seen Bachelor Party?”
“ES, THE DONKEY DIED AFTER SNORTING COCAINE!”
“Okay, okay. No donkeys.”
“Thank you.”
He scribbled something on his clipboard.
“What about goats? People love goats!”
“ES, WHY DO WE NEED FARM ANIMALS AT A BOOB FESTIVAL?”
“Petting zoo!”
“THAT PHRASE IS GOING TO GET US SHUT DOWN BEFORE WE OPEN!”
“Fine. We’ll call it the Family-Friendly Livestock Experience.”
“THAT’S WORSE!”
He turned another page.
“Oh! And I found us a venue.”
“Where?”
“Bethel, New York!”
“What’s in Bethel?”
“Woodstock!”
“ES, Woodstock happened in 1969.”
“Exactly! People still talk about it!”
“Yeah, because Hendrix played there. Who’s playing at ours?”
ES smiled.
“I’m working on that.”
I should have closed the door.
Instead, I asked the most dangerous question in human history.
“What do you need me to do?”
⸻
Chapter 1: The Committee Nobody Voted For
ES assembled an international planning committee on Zoom.
Most of us had been chatting online for years, but very few had actually met. Some had never even heard each other’s voices.
Lola May immediately took charge.
“Okay, everybody! Let’s make this fun, welcoming, and memorable!”
Loverboy appeared wearing sunglasses indoors.
“Ladies, your entertainment has arrived.”
Nikki sighed.
“Can somebody mute him?”
OG Liz joined.
“I’ve been around long enough to know this is going to be a disaster.”
LadyV nodded.
“I brought wine.”
Welshie looked at his clock.
“It’s nine in the morning.”
“Then I’m behind schedule.”
Christy volunteered to organize welcome bags.
Honey offered homemade cookies.
Lullaby offered a relaxing playlist.
Sparkling wanted glitter.
“Absolutely not,” OG Liz said. “I still have glitter in places I can’t explain from 2019.”
David volunteered for security.
Kristo offered to handle technology.
Impi wanted to organize outdoor games.
Rumina suggested a poetry workshop.
Anroc offered to coordinate transportation.
Paul volunteered to manage the budget.
Jen asked if anybody had considered insurance, permits, or emergency evacuation plans.
ES replied, “We’ll figure that out.”
Jen quietly opened a bottle of wine.
Then a mysterious black square appeared on Zoom.
MICHAEL (ADMIN)
“Hello, everyone.”
The meeting went silent.
Nobody had ever seen Michael’s face.
Some suspected he was a retired intelligence officer.
Others believed he was actually three moderators sharing one account.
“Michael!” Lola exclaimed. “Are you coming?”
“Unfortunately, no. But I’d love it if you could livestream the entire event so I can watch from the UK.”
I leaned toward the camera.
“So we’re doing all the work while you sit in England drinking tea?”
“Precisely.”
“Are you actually a person, Michael, or just an unusually polite moderation algorithm?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
His microphone clicked off.
OG Liz whispered, “Definitely MI6.”
Then ES announced one final committee appointment.
“Oh! And Jian-Yang is handling waste management.”
Jen looked up.
“Does he have experience?”
ES nodded enthusiastically.
“He says he’s very good at getting rid of things.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Not one bit.
⸻
Chapter 2: Three Days of Peace, Love & Lactation
Three months later, six hundred people descended on a cow pasture outside Bethel, New York, just down the road from the original Woodstock festival site.
ES had convinced a local farmer named Earl to rent him forty acres.
Earl was seventy-three, wore overalls, and looked like he’d spent his entire life regretting decisions made by other people.
“Now, just so we’re clear,” Earl said, “you folks aren’t gonna be doing anything weird with my cows, are ya?”
“Absolutely not!” ES replied.
Earl looked at the giant inflatable breast.
“Then what’s that?”
“Festival decoration.”
Earl scratched his head.
“Hell, I thought Woodstock was strange.”
ES had rented carnival rides, food trucks, three enormous bouncy houses, and a petting zoo featuring six goats named after famous rock stars.
The entrance was supposed to feature a giant banner:
WELCOME TO BOOBIEFEST 2026! COME FOR THE COMMUNITY. STAY FOR THE MEMORIES!
Unfortunately, the sign company had accidentally printed:
WELCOME TO BOOBIEFEST! COME FOR THE BOOBIES. STAY FOR THE GOATS!
Underneath, ES had added another banner:
THREE DAYS OF PEACE, LOVE & LACTATION!
“ES, we’re only here for one day.”
“It’s a tribute.”
“TO WHAT? BAD DECISIONS?”
Lola May stood at registration wearing a sash reading HOSTESS WITH THE MOSTESS.
“Welcome, everybody! Name tags on the left, refreshments on the right, and please remember that this is a social event, not a dating competition!”
Loverboy walked past wearing a sash reading HOST WITH THE MOST CHEST.
Nikki pointed at him.
“Take that off.”
“It’s official merchandise.”
“Loverboy, you made it with a Sharpie.”
“Limited edition.”
Meanwhile, people were meeting their internet friends for the first time.
“WAIT! YOU’RE WELSHIE?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you’d be taller.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You type tall.”
Across the pasture, someone approached OG Liz.
“OH MY GOD! I’VE KNOWN YOU FOR SIX YEARS!”
OG Liz blinked.
“Who are you?”
“MidnightPudding69!”
“Oh! I thought you were a woman!”
“Nope.”
“Well, this is already educational.”
A man approached David.
“Hey! I’m CaptainCuddleMuffin!”
David looked at the six-foot-four biker covered in tattoos.
“Of course you are.”
And that’s when it occurred to me that bringing together hundreds of people who’d only ever known each other by screen names was a little like organizing a high school reunion for people who’d never attended the same school.
Except with more boobs.
And goats.
The Waste Management Department
As I walked past the food trucks, I noticed a man standing beside a large metal barrel, stuffing paper plates, cardboard boxes, and plastic cups into it.
He was holding a can of lighter fluid.
“HEY! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”
He looked up.
It was Jian-Yang.
“I’m taking care of trash.”
“WHY DO YOU HAVE LIGHTER FLUID?”
“To burn trash.”
“WE DON’T BURN TRASH HERE!”
Jian-Yang stared at me.
“Okay.”
I started walking away.
Then he called after me.
“What about garbage?”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You say no burn trash. What about garbage?”
“JIAN-YANG, TRASH AND GARBAGE ARE THE SAME THING!”
He thought about this.
“No. Trash is dry. Garbage is wet.”
“WE DON’T BURN EITHER!”
He nodded.
“Okay. Very confusing rules.”
I found ES.
“WHY IS JIAN-YANG HERE?”
ES smiled.
“He’s our director of environmental sustainability!”
“HE’S TRYING TO SET THE GARBAGE ON FIRE!”
“Exactly! Zero landfill waste!”
“ES, THAT’S NOT HOW SUSTAINABILITY WORKS!”
Jian-Yang appeared behind us.
“What about recycling?”
I pointed at him.
“DO NOT BURN THE RECYCLING!”
He looked genuinely offended.
“I was only asking.”
⸻
Chapter 3: The Celebrity Entertainment Nobody Requested
At noon, ES grabbed the microphone.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WE HAVE SOME VERY SPECIAL CELEBRITY GUESTS!”
I turned toward him.
“ES, what celebrities?”
“Trust me!”
“THOSE ARE THE TWO WORDS THAT GOT US INTO THIS MESS!”
A battered tour bus rolled into the pasture.
The door opened.
Out stepped Dave Coulier.
He waved enthusiastically.
“HEY, EVERYBODY!”
Silence.
Someone whispered, “Who’s that?”
Another person said, “Wasn’t he on Full House?”
A third shouted, “WHERE’S JOHN STAMOS?”
Dave smiled awkwardly.
“Cut. It. Out!”
Nobody laughed.
Except ES.
Who laughed so hard he nearly dropped his clipboard.
Dave looked at the crowd.
“Wow. Tough room.”
Loverboy approached him.
“Hey, weren’t you the guy from that show with the Olsen twins?”
“Yep!”
“What happened to them?”
Dave sighed.
“Great question.”
Then ES announced the next guest.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE LEGENDARY DAVID HASSELHOFF!”
The Hoff stepped off the bus wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses.
He looked around.
“Wow. This is quite a crowd.”
Someone yelled, “WERE YOU IN BAYWATCH?”
David smiled.
“Yes.”
“DID YOU EVER MEET PAMELA ANDERSON?”
“Yes.”
“IS SHE HERE?”
“No.”
The crowd booed.
David looked confused.
“I’m also a recording artist, you know.”
Welshie shouted, “YEAH, IN GERMANY!”
Hasselhoff pointed at her.
“THANK YOU! FINALLY, SOMEONE WHO APPRECIATES MY WORK!”
ES grabbed the microphone.
“And now, David Hasselhoff will perform his international hit!”
Hasselhoff began singing Looking for Freedom.
Three people clapped.
One cow mooed.
Loverboy started dancing.
Nikki walked away.
Meanwhile, Dave Coulier attempted to entertain the crowd with cartoon voices.
He did Popeye.
He did Bullwinkle.
He did a helicopter.
Nobody knew what was happening.
Finally, Earl the farmer walked up to me.
“Son, I gotta ask.”
“What?”
“Are these people famous?”
“Apparently.”
Earl nodded.
“Huh. I saw Hendrix in ’69.”
He watched Dave Coulier do a Bugs Bunny impression.
“Music’s really gone downhill.”
⸻
Chapter 4: The Carnival of Questionable Decisions
ES had organized an impressive lineup of attractions.
There was the Nipple Ring Toss, using oversized foam rings and cartoon targets.
The Milk Bottle Knockdown, which was basically regular carnival bowling with unfortunate branding.
The Dunk-a-Moderator Booth, where participants could throw balls at a target to dunk a volunteer moderator.
The Bouncy Boob House, an enormous pink inflatable structure shaped like two giant breasts.
And the Goat Yoga Pavilion.
I stared at the schedule.
“ES, why is there goat yoga?”
“Because people love goats!”
“ES, YOU KEEP SAYING THAT LIKE IT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING!”
At the dunk tank, Loverboy volunteered to be the first victim.
“Ladies, who wants to get me wet?”
Nikki immediately bought twenty tickets.
“Best money I’ve spent all weekend.”
She hit the target on her first throw.
SPLASH!
Loverboy surfaced.
“Was that necessary?”
“Extremely.”
Meanwhile, Sparkling had decorated the bouncy house with approximately seventeen pounds of glitter.
Christy was handing out welcome bags.
Honey’s cookies were disappearing.
Lullaby’s relaxing playlist was competing with carnival music, goat noises, and Hasselhoff singing karaoke.
And Jen was walking around with a clipboard muttering, “We are absolutely not insured for this.”
⸻
Chapter 5: The First Goat Incident
Everything was going surprisingly well.
Until Impi decided to demonstrate goat yoga.
Twenty participants sat on yoga mats.
Six goats wandered among them.
One goat climbed onto David’s back.
Another ate Rumina’s poetry.
A third stole OG Liz’s name tag.
And the largest goat, named Ozzy, escaped through an open gate.
“ES!” I yelled. “ONE OF YOUR GOATS IS LOOSE!”
“Which one?”
“OZZY!”
“Oh, he’s friendly!”
Ozzy immediately ran toward the food trucks.
He ate three hot dogs, knocked over a lemonade stand, and climbed onto the stage during Loverboy’s karaoke performance.
Loverboy was halfway through You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ when Ozzy headbutted the microphone stand.
CRASH!
The crowd erupted.
Nikki was laughing so hard she nearly fell over.
Welshie shook her head.
“That’s the best performance he’s given all day.”
Then Ozzy wandered into the Bouncy Boob House.
I watched in horror.
“ES… please tell me goats can’t puncture inflatable structures.”
ES checked his clipboard.
“Well, technically…”
POOOOOOOOF!
The entire bouncy house collapsed.
Thirty adults came tumbling out like socks from an overloaded dryer.
Nobody was hurt.
Except Loverboy’s dignity.
Which had already been on life support.
⸻
Chapter 6: The Great Milk Chug
ES insisted the afternoon’s grand event would be spectacular.
“Remember the pie-eating contest from Stand by Me?”
“Yes. Everyone threw up.”
“Exactly! But we’re doing milk!”
“ES, THAT MOVIE WAS A WARNING, NOT AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL!”
Twelve volunteers lined up behind a long table for a silly milk-drinking contest.
Loverboy grabbed the microphone.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE MOST IMPORTANT DAIRY EVENT IN HUMAN HISTORY!”
Nikki shouted, “SOMEONE TAKE THAT MICROPHONE AWAY!”
Kristo activated the scoreboard and connected it to Michael’s livestream.
A mysterious British voice boomed through the speakers.
“Can everybody hear me?”
The crowd cheered.
“MICHAEL! TURN YOUR CAMERA ON!” Lola shouted.
“No, thank you.”
“COME ON!”
“I’ve maintained an air of mystery for years. I’m not throwing that away over a milk-drinking contest.”
Then ES raised the starter pistol.
“READY!”
“SET!”
“LET THE LACTOSE GAMES BEGIN!”
For thirty seconds, everything went perfectly.
Then someone laughed.
Milk came out his nose.
Someone else sneezed.
Another contestant knocked over a pitcher.
And suddenly the entire table dissolved into chaos.
Milk everywhere.
On the judges.
On the contestants.
On the stage.
LadyV spilled her wine.
OG Liz stood up.
“I KNEW IT! I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD HAPPEN!”
Honey started distributing cookies.
Which, given the circumstances, seemed oddly appropriate.
Then Ozzy the goat appeared.
He jumped onto the stage, slipped in a puddle of milk, and crashed into the twelve-foot inflatable breast.
Its tether snapped.
The enormous boob floated majestically into the sky.
Six hundred people watched in stunned silence.
Somewhere above New York, an airline pilot radioed air traffic control.
“Tower, we have an unidentified object at three thousand feet.”
“Can you describe it?”
Long pause.
“I’m going to need you to promise not to laugh.”
⸻
Chapter 7: The Omega Moos Arrive
By sunset, the carnival had settled down.
Someone built a campfire. People gathered in lawn chairs, passing around snacks, laughing about the day’s disasters, and finally getting to know the people they’d been chatting with online for years.
The milk-chugging contestants were still sitting nearby, looking slightly green around the gills.
One of them had consumed nearly a gallon.
He was sweating.
Another had loosened his belt.
A third was lying on the grass, staring at the sky.
“I can hear my stomach.”
Lullaby brought out a guitar.
Rumina began singing.
Lola May joined in.
Before long, everyone was singing badly, loudly, and with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for drunk wedding guests.
It was actually beautiful.
For about four minutes.
Then a battered Volkswagen van pulled into the campground.
The side door slid open.
Out stepped Booger, Poindexter, and six very busty women wearing matching pink shirts that read:
OMEGA MOO — ONCE A SORORITY, ALWAYS A HERD.
These women looked like they’d gone to college forty years ago and had been attending the same reunion ever since.
One was wearing leopard-print leggings.
Another had enough hairspray to violate several environmental regulations.
And the one in charge, who introduced herself as Big Bertha, had a chest that appeared to have its own gravitational field.
I turned toward ES.
“Who the hell are these people?”
ES beamed.
“The Omega Moos! I invited them!”
“ES, they look like they graduated in 1986.”
“Exactly! Alumni!”
Big Bertha stepped forward.
“WHO’S READY TO PARTY?”
Loverboy immediately appeared.
“Ladies, allow me to introduce myself.”
Bertha looked him up and down.
“Honey, I’ve got bras older than you.”
Nikki nearly fell out of her chair laughing.
Then Christy approached Booger.
“Okay, I have to ask. Why do they call you Booger?”
Booger shrugged.
“I dunno.”
Then, without breaking eye contact, he shoved a finger up his nose.
He dug around for a few seconds.
Pulled out an absolutely enormous booger.
Examined it.
And ate it.
The entire campfire went silent.
Welshie gagged.
“OH, THAT’S DISGUSTING!”
Honey dropped her cookie.
Nikki covered her mouth.
“DID HE JUST EAT THAT?”
Booger shrugged.
“What?”
That’s when one of the milk-chugging contestants made a terrible noise.
“HUURRRRRGGGHHH!”
And threw up.
Directly onto the grass.
The person next to him saw it.
“OH GOD!”
BLAAAAAAARGH!
Then someone else.
Then another.
And another.
It spread across the campground like a gastrointestinal chain reaction.
Within thirty seconds, Boobiefest had become a live-action reenactment of the infamous Lardass pie-eating disaster from Stand by Me.
Except instead of blueberry pie, it was milk.
Gallons of milk.
Curdled milk.
Milk mixed with hot dogs, cotton candy, and whatever the hell Loverboy had been eating.
People were running in every direction.
One man threw up into his cowboy hat.
Another leaned over a trash can, only to discover it was already occupied.
LadyV looked at OG Liz.
“Don’t you dare.”
OG Liz swallowed hard.
“I’m trying.”
Lola May grabbed the microphone.
“EVERYBODY PLEASE REMAIN CALM!”
Someone threw up behind her.
She dropped the microphone.
“OH, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!”
Meanwhile, Booger stood there looking genuinely confused.
“What? Was it something I ate?”
I stared at him.
“YES, BOOGER! IT WAS EXACTLY SOMETHING YOU ATE!”
Once the worst of the vomiting had stopped, Booger reached into his jacket.
“Anybody interested in some Wonderjoints?”
The campfire went silent again.
Christy gasped.
“Oh my God! I don’t do that!”
Honey shook her head.
“No, thank you!”
Lola May laughed.
“Booger, we’re trying to have a nice community gathering!”
Booger shrugged.
“Suit yourselves.”
Then he opened a second bag.
“What about edibles?”
Loverboy perked up.
“Are those brownies?”
“Yep.”
“Do they have nuts?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking of.”
Nikki covered her face.
“Of course that’s your first question.”
OG Liz stared at Booger.
“Did you seriously come to a festival with a pharmacy in your jacket?”
“Technically, it’s a bakery.”
Poindexter pulled out a calculator.
“Actually, Booger, depending on the jurisdiction—”
“Poindexter, nobody invited you to do math.”
Some people declined. Others wandered off to the regular dessert table. A few decided to sample the adult-only treats.
And the party continued.
Lullaby started playing again.
LadyV began dancing with a folding chair.
David attempted the moonwalk and nearly dislocated something.
Sparkling produced glow sticks from absolutely nowhere.
The Omega Moos formed a conga line.
Big Bertha led the charge, followed by five women whose combined underwire could probably interfere with airport radar.
Welshie watched them pass.
“Bloody hell. That’s not a conga line. That’s a structural engineering challenge.”
Loverboy tried to join.
Bertha turned around.
“Sorry, sweetheart. This ride has a height requirement.”
Nikki smiled.
“Finally. A rule I support.”
Then Booger made the single worst decision of the evening.
He left his bag of edibles on a picnic table.
Next to the goat enclosure.
Unattended.
And Ozzy the goat was already watching.
⸻
Chapter 8: The Night of the Living Goats
At approximately 10:17 p.m., six goats escaped their enclosure.
At approximately 10:19 p.m., they discovered Booger’s unattended brownies.
At approximately 10:21 p.m., every remaining edible disappeared.
At approximately 10:35 p.m., the petting zoo became a veterinary emergency.
Ozzy began running in circles.
Mick Jagger the goat climbed onto a picnic table and refused to come down.
Freddie Mercury started bleating at the moon.
Bono walked backward into a trash can.
And Keith Richards just stood there staring at a fence.
Which, admittedly, wasn’t that unusual for Keith Richards.
Then the goats developed what appeared to be the world’s most aggressive case of the munchies.
They ate everything.
Grass.
Napkins.
Paper plates.
A discarded shoe.
Three hot dogs.
A bag of cotton candy.
And, unfortunately, the remains of the Great Boobiefest Barf-O-Rama.
Welshie watched in horror.
“OH, COME ON! THEY’RE EATING THE VOMIT!”
Poindexter adjusted his glasses.
“Technically, goats are opportunistic feeders, although—”
“POINDEXTER, SHUT UP!”
Ozzy climbed onto the roof of a food truck.
Mick Jagger attempted to eat the registration banner.
Freddie Mercury chased Loverboy across the campground.
Loverboy screamed.
“WHY IS IT FOLLOWING ME?”
Nikki yelled back.
“EVEN THE GOATS HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!”
Then Bono climbed onto the Ferris wheel platform.
Impi came running toward the campfire.
“GUYS! SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH THE GOATS!”
I jumped up.
“What happened?”
“They’re acting really weird!”
“Define weird.”
“Ozzy’s trying to climb the Ferris wheel, Freddie’s eating a traffic cone, and Keith Richards hasn’t moved in fifteen minutes!”
“ES!”
ES looked up from his clipboard.
“What?”
“YOUR GOATS ATE BOOGER’S EDIBLES!”
He blinked.
“Really?”
“YES!”
“Wow. They really do love brownies.”
“ES, THIS IS NOT A MARKETING OPPORTUNITY!”
Then a horrible scream came from the petting zoo.
We ran over.
There, lying flat on his back with all four legs sticking straight into the air, was Keith Richards.
Completely motionless.
Lola May gasped.
“Oh my God! Is he dead?”
Booger knelt beside him.
“Uh-oh.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN UH-OH?”
Poindexter examined the situation.
“Technically, goats have a substantially different metabolic response to—”
“POINDEXTER, NOT NOW!”
ES looked devastated.
“Not Keith!”
Welshie shook her head.
“Of all the goats, I really thought Keith would outlive everybody.”
The veterinarian arrived and examined him.
The crowd waited.
Finally, the vet stood up.
“I’m sorry. Keith didn’t make it.”
Silence.
Even Booger took off his hat.
OG Liz sighed.
“Well, that’s the last time we let Booger cater an event.”
Jian-Yang’s Barbecue
ES wiped away a tear.
“Poor Keith.”
For once, nobody had anything funny to say.
Then Jian-Yang appeared.
He looked at the goat.
Looked at ES.
Looked at the goat again.
“Are you going to eat that?”
The entire group turned toward him.
“WHAT?” I shouted.
“Goat. Very good meat.”
“JIAN-YANG, THE GOAT JUST DIED!”
He shrugged.
“Now is fresh.”
“THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT BETTER!”
The veterinarian stepped forward.
“Absolutely not. That animal needs to be handled appropriately. It may have ingested a toxic substance.”
Jian-Yang nodded.
“Okay.”
Everyone returned to the campfire.
Ten minutes later, someone smelled smoke.
I turned around.
Jian-Yang had built a makeshift barbecue out of a shopping cart, two cinder blocks, and the metal trash barrel.
And there was Keith Richards.
On a makeshift spit.
I nearly had a stroke.
“JIAN-YANG! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
“Barbecue.”
“THAT IS KEITH RICHARDS!”
“Yes. Goat.”
“HE WAS OUR MASCOT!”
Jian-Yang looked confused.
“Now he is dinner.”
Loverboy wandered over.
“What’s cooking?”
Nikki grabbed his arm.
“DO NOT EAT THAT!”
Jian-Yang poked at the fire.
“Very good. Free-range. Organic.”
“HE ATE SIX POT BROWNIES AND A PARKING TICKET!”
“Extra seasoning.”
The veterinarian came running.
“STOP! YOU CANNOT COOK THAT ANIMAL!”
Jian-Yang looked annoyed.
“First no burn trash. Then no burn garbage. Now no barbecue. This is terrible festival.”
The veterinarian and David immediately removed the animal from the fire and secured it.
I pointed at Jian-Yang.
“YOU ARE NEVER ALLOWED NEAR ANOTHER GOAT!”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Then he asked:
“What about cow?”
From across the pasture, Earl the farmer shouted:
“YOU STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM MY COWS!”
Meanwhile, Ozzy the goat came flying out of the darkness, jumped over a cooler, and landed directly in the campfire’s marshmallow supply.
BAAAAAAA!
Everyone screamed.
David grabbed a fire extinguisher.
Sparkling threw glitter.
Loverboy yelled, “SAVE THE MARSHMALLOWS!”
Nikki shouted, “WHY ARE THOSE YOUR PRIORITIES?”
The veterinarian turned toward ES.
“Sir, I need you to keep these animals secured and get them treated immediately.”
ES nodded solemnly.
“Absolutely.”
Then he whispered to me.
“Do you think next year we should try alpacas?”
“ES, I’M GOING TO BURY THAT CLIPBOARD.”
⸻
Chapter 9: Michael’s Big Reveal
By 10:55 p.m., things had finally settled down.
The remaining goats were secured.
The veterinarian was attending to the survivors.
The vomit had been hosed off the main walkway.
And the Omega Moos were sitting around the campfire singing something that sounded suspiciously like a sorority drinking song.
Lola May gathered everyone together.
“Okay, everybody! We’ve had quite a day. But we’re all here, we’re together, and that’s what matters.”
OG Liz raised her glass.
“Except Keith.”
A moment of silence followed.
Then someone shouted, “TO KEITH!”
Everyone raised their drinks.
“TO KEITH!”
Kristo approached the microphone.
“Hey, everyone! Michael’s still watching the livestream!”
The crowd cheered.
“MICHAEL!”
“MICHAEL!”
“DID YOU SEE THE GOATS?”
A familiar British voice came through the speakers.
“Oh, I saw everything.”
I grabbed the microphone.
“EVERYTHING?”
“Every glorious moment.”
“YOU SAW THE MILK CONTEST?”
“Yes.”
“BOOGER EATING HIS OWN BOOGER?”
“Unfortunately.”
“THE CHAIN-REACTION VOMITING?”
“I nearly spilled my tea.”
“THE GOATS?”
“Quite extraordinary.”
“AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO HELP?”
Michael paused.
“I’m in England.”
“THAT HASN’T STOPPED YOU FROM MODERATING PEOPLE!”
“True. But I’ve yet to find the button for remotely restraining livestock.”
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Lola May called out.
“MICHAEL! TURN YOUR CAMERA ON!”
“No, thank you.”
“COME ON! WE’VE ALL MET EACH OTHER NOW!”
“I’ve maintained an air of mystery for years. I intend to preserve it.”
Then something extraordinary happened.
Michael accidentally turned on his camera.
The giant screen flickered.
And there he was.
Sitting in a comfortable chair.
Wearing a bathrobe.
Holding a cup of tea.
With a cat on his lap.
And approximately seventeen monitors behind him.
Nobody spoke.
Michael looked at the camera.
The cat looked at the camera.
Michael calmly said, “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
The crowd went absolutely wild.
“MICHAEL!”
“WE CAN SEE YOU!”
“HE’S REAL!”
OG Liz pointed at the screen.
“I KNEW IT!”
LadyV nodded.
“MI6.”
Loverboy grabbed the microphone.
“MICHAEL! YOU LOOK LIKE A GUY WHO KNOWS WHERE ALL THE BODIES ARE BURIED!”
Michael took a sip of tea.
“Only the ones I’ve moderated.”
Even Nikki laughed.
For the first time all day, everything felt normal.
Well, as normal as a gathering of six hundred people surrounded by deflated inflatable breasts, spilled milk, and traumatized goats could possibly feel.
Lullaby started playing guitar again.
Rumina began singing.
Lola May put her arm around Christy.
Honey passed around cookies.
Sparkling handed out glow sticks.
Even OG Liz was smiling.
Michael remained on the screen, sipping tea and watching his strange little internet community enjoy a genuinely beautiful moment together.
And I thought to myself:
Maybe this whole ridiculous thing had been worth it.
Then Jian-Yang walked past carrying another trash bag.
I stopped him.
“Jian-Yang. Where are you taking that?”
“Garbage.”
“WHERE?”
“To garbage disposal.”
“JIAN-YANG, WE’VE BEEN OVER THIS. NO FIRE.”
He stared at me.
“Okay. No fire.”
I watched him walk away.
Then turned back toward the livestream.
Michael smiled.
“Quite a charming gathering, really. Despite everything.”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Maybe this whole thing was worth it.”
Behind us, a faint orange glow appeared near the dumpsters.
Then a column of black smoke rose above the cow pasture.
Michael leaned toward his camera.
“Is that supposed to be happening?”
I turned around.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Then, in the distance, we heard sirens.
⸻
Chapter 10: The Great Boobiestock Police and Fire Raid
At 11:04 p.m., three fire engines, six police cruisers, and an ambulance came bouncing down the muddy farm road toward Boobiefest.
Someone had called 911 to report a large fire near the dumpsters, suspicious smoke, and hundreds of people running around a cow pasture.
The first fire engine swerved around a cow.
The second nearly hit the deflated inflatable breast.
The third got stuck behind a Volkswagen van.
The first police cruiser hit a pothole.
BANG!
The second swerved around another cow.
The third got stuck in the mud.
And the fourth stopped because a goat was standing in the road eating a traffic cone.
Out stepped Sergeant Mahoney, Officer Hightower, Tackleberry, Jones, and Commandant Lassard.
Mahoney looked across the pasture.
Six hundred people.
A burning dumpster.
Deflated inflatable breasts.
Vomit-covered grass.
A Ferris wheel.
The Omega Moos.
Five surviving goats.
A suspiciously goat-shaped barbecue.
And David Hasselhoff still trying to sell autographed photographs.
Mahoney slowly removed his sunglasses.
“What. The. Fuck.”
Lassard stepped out of the cruiser and surveyed the scene.
“Good heavens! Is this Woodstock?”
Mahoney shook his head.
“No, sir. Woodstock was down the road.”
Lassard looked confused.
“Well, this is certainly worse than Woodstock.”
Tackleberry immediately pulled out his flashlight.
“WE HAVE A SITUATION!”
Mahoney looked at him.
“Really, Tackleberry? What gave it away? The burning dumpster or the goat eating the license plate?”
Jones suddenly made the sound of a police siren.
WEEEE-OOOOO! WEEEE-OOOOO!
Three people screamed.
A cow bolted.
And Ozzy the goat jumped off the food truck.
Tackleberry spun around.
“WHERE’S THE OTHER CRUISER?”
Jones grinned.
“Right here.”
He made the siren noise again.
WEEEE-OOOOO!
Mahoney shook his head.
“Jones, you’re going to cause a stampede.”
Too late.
Six cows began running across the pasture.
Lassard watched them pass.
“Remarkable. I didn’t realize Woodstock had a rodeo.”
The Garbage Investigation
A firefighter approached.
“WHO STARTED THIS FIRE?”
Everyone pointed at Jian-Yang.
Jian-Yang looked offended.
“I did not burn trash.”
I stared at him.
“JIAN-YANG!”
He pointed toward the dumpster.
“I burned garbage.”
The firefighter closed his eyes.
“Sir, that’s the same thing.”
Jian-Yang shrugged.
“Everybody keeps saying this.”
Mahoney walked over.
“Okay, let me understand something. You started a fire in a dumpster, in the middle of a cow pasture, surrounded by six hundred people?”
Jian-Yang nodded.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Waste management.”
Mahoney looked at me.
“Who hired this guy?”
ES raised his hand.
“He’s our director of environmental sustainability!”
Mahoney stared at him.
“Your environmental sustainability director set the environment on fire?”
ES considered that.
“Well, when you put it that way…”
Then Tackleberry noticed the remains of the makeshift barbecue.
“WHAT’S THAT?”
Jian-Yang smiled.
“Goat barbecue.”
Mahoney froze.
“Goat WHAT?”
“Goat barbecue.”
Hightower looked at the empty spit.
“Where’d you get the goat?”
Jian-Yang pointed toward the veterinarian.
“Dead goat.”
There was a long silence.
Mahoney slowly turned toward me.
“Let me get this straight. You people came to the original Woodstock grounds, brought six hundred adults, hired a guy who burns garbage, had a milk-vomiting contest, poisoned your own goats, and then tried to barbecue one of them?”
I swallowed.
“Well, technically, the original Woodstock grounds are down the road.”
Mahoney stared at me.
“THAT’S THE PART YOU WANT TO CORRECT?”
The Michael Incident
Kristo’s livestream was still running.
Michael, sitting comfortably in England in his bathrobe, was watching the entire spectacle with his cat and a cup of tea.
Mahoney noticed the giant screen.
“Who’s that?”
ES immediately brightened.
“OH! THAT’S OUR ADMINISTRATOR!”
He pointed at Michael.
“HE’S IN CHARGE!”
Michael slowly lowered his teacup.
“ES. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Mahoney looked at the screen.
“Sir, are you responsible for this event?”
Michael cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
Lassard stepped forward.
“Oh! A British gentleman! Wonderful! Were you at the original Woodstock?”
Michael stared at him.
“No.”
“Did you organize this one?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why are you on that enormous television?”
Michael paused.
“I’m beginning to ask myself the same question.”
Jones suddenly made the sound of a helicopter.
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP!
Lassard looked up.
“Good heavens! Air support!”
Mahoney sighed.
“Sir, that’s Jones.”
“Oh! Excellent initiative!”
Then someone in the crowd screamed:
“COPS!”
And the entire pasture erupted.
Six hundred people scattered.
Welshie sprinted toward the parking lot.
LadyV grabbed her wine.
OG Liz grabbed LadyV.
“COME ON! WE’RE TOO OLD FOR THIS!”
Christy rescued the welcome bags.
Honey grabbed the cookies.
Sparkling disappeared in a cloud of glitter.
Rumina shouted, “THIS IS GOING TO MAKE AN AMAZING POEM!”
Anroc attempted to direct traffic.
Paul screamed about nonrefundable deposits.
Jen stood with her arms crossed.
“I. TOLD. YOU. SO.”
Meanwhile, the Omega Moos made a break for their Volkswagen van.
Big Bertha was leading the charge.
“MOVE IT, GIRLS!”
Loverboy attempted to follow.
“LADIES! WAIT FOR ME!”
Bertha shouted back.
“NOT ENOUGH ROOM, SWEETHEART!”
Booger and Poindexter jumped into the front seats.
“DRIVE!” Booger yelled.
Poindexter adjusted his glasses.
“Statistically, fleeing would be inadvisable.”
“THEN DRIVE ADVISABLY!”
The van lurched forward, traveled six feet, and sank into the mud.
Booger sighed.
“God, I miss college.”
Meanwhile, Jones started making machine-gun noises.
RATATATATATAT!
Tackleberry hit the dirt.
“TACKLEBERRY!” Mahoney yelled. “IT’S JONES!”
“HE NEEDS TO STOP DOING THAT!”
Then Lassard walked up to ES.
“Young man, what exactly is the purpose of this gathering?”
ES proudly straightened his ringmaster’s jacket.
“Sir, this is Boobiefest! We’re bringing people together through friendship, community, and shared interests!”
Lassard nodded thoughtfully.
“Ah. A cultural festival.”
“Exactly!”
Lassard looked toward the deflated bouncy house.
“And the enormous breasts?”
“Entertainment!”
“The goats?”
“Also entertainment!”
“The vomiting?”
ES hesitated.
“Unscheduled entertainment.”
Lassard smiled.
“Wonderful! Very ambitious!”
Mahoney buried his face in his hands.
“Sir, please stop encouraging him.”
Then a cow wandered between them.
Lassard patted it on the head.
“And who might this lovely lady be?”
The cow mooed.
Jones mooed back perfectly.
The cow answered.
Jones answered again.
Within seconds, Jones was having a full conversation with a cow.
Hightower watched.
Mahoney watched.
Tackleberry watched.
Finally, Lassard smiled.
“Excellent community policing, Jones. You’ve established rapport with the locals.”
Mahoney turned toward me.
“Look, I’ve been to some pretty wild parties. But six hundred adults in a cow pasture, a flying boob, goats eating brownies, a guy burning garbage, and a British guy denying he knows any of you?”
He shook his head.
“Woodstock had nothing on this shit.”
Just then, a final message appeared on the livestream.
Michael (Admin): For the avoidance of doubt, I am not affiliated with this event, these animals, any open flames, or anyone named Booger or Jian-Yang.
CLICK.
The screen went black.
Mahoney looked at ES.
“Does your administrator always abandon you when the cops show up?”
I sighed.
“Apparently, that’s what we pay him for.”
Lassard turned toward the officers.
“Well, gentlemen, I believe we’ve learned something valuable tonight.”
Mahoney raised an eyebrow.
“What’s that, sir?”
Lassard smiled.
“Never underestimate the power of community.”
Behind him, Ozzy the goat ate the last remaining copy of the festival’s liability waiver.
Mahoney watched.
“Or the importance of insurance.”
Meanwhile, Jian-Yang stood beside the extinguished dumpster, watching the firefighters roll up their hoses.
He turned toward me.
“So… no more barbecue?”
“NO!”
“What about microwave?”
“JIAN-YANG, GO HOME!”
He nodded.
“Okay. Terrible festival. One star.”
Then, as the crowd scattered, Jian-Yang pulled out his phone and began typing a review.
BOOBIEFEST 2026
★☆☆☆☆
Too many rules. No trash burning. No garbage burning. No goat barbecue. Very bad management.
⸻
Chapter 11: The Great Escape
By midnight, Boobiefest was officially over.
The carnival lights were off.
The bouncy houses were deflated.
The food trucks were gone.
The fire was extinguished.
And six hundred people who’d spent years talking online were suddenly scattered across New York.
Some drove home.
Some went back to their hotels.
Some ended up at a twenty-four-hour diner.
Loverboy reportedly tried to organize an afterparty.
Nikki reportedly threatened to organize an intervention.
OG Liz and LadyV found a quiet bar.
Lola May made sure everyone had somewhere safe to go.
Christy distributed the last of the welcome bags.
Honey handed out emergency cookies.
Jen finally got to sit down.
Earl the farmer stood in the middle of his ruined pasture, staring at the muddy tire tracks, the scorched dumpster, and a giant deflated breast.
He shook his head.
“I should’ve planted corn.”
And Michael, watching from the UK, had witnessed everything.
Every single moment.
His mysterious voice appeared in the group chat.
Michael (Admin): Well. That was certainly something.
I replied:
Me: YOU WATCHED ALL OF THAT AND DIDN’T HELP?
Michael: I did moderate three inappropriate comments during the goat incident.
Me: MICHAEL, A GOAT DIED.
Michael: Yes. Very unfortunate. I’ve removed Booger’s catering privileges.
Me: WHAT ABOUT JIAN-YANG?
Michael: He’s been removed from the sustainability committee.
Me: WE HAD A SUSTAINABILITY COMMITTEE?
Michael: Apparently.
⸻
Chapter 12: The Café Reunion
Two weeks later, it was Saturday.
Time for our regular biweekly voice chat café.
One by one, familiar names appeared in the room.
Lola May welcomed everyone.
“Helloooo, everybody! Welcome back!”
OG Liz joined.
“Has everyone recovered?”
LadyV laughed.
“Physically or emotionally?”
Welshie chimed in.
“I’m still trying to explain to my family why I flew across the Atlantic to attend a festival near Woodstock involving a runaway boob, six stoned goats, a dead Keith Richards, and a man who tried to barbecue him.”
Nikki joined.
“Has anybody heard from Loverboy?”
“HELLO, LADIES!”
Everyone groaned.
Christy asked whether everyone had received their photos.
Honey wanted to know if anybody needed the cookie recipe.
Sparkling announced she was still finding glitter in her luggage.
David said he’d developed a nervous twitch whenever he heard a goat bleat.
Kristo was still trying to fix the livestream recordings.
Impi had been banned from volunteering at petting zoos.
Rumina read her poem.
It was surprisingly moving.
Anroc confirmed everyone had made it home.
Paul announced the final budget deficit was now $84,000, including $8,400 for pasture restoration and cow-related damages, plus another $12,600 for fire response, cleanup, and environmental remediation.
Jen simply said, “Next time, we’re using a professional event planner.”
ES sounded optimistic.
“Well, at least we had a sustainability program.”
Everyone went silent.
Then Jian-Yang joined the voice chat.
“Hello.”
I sighed.
“What do you want, Jian-Yang?”
“Next year, can I burn garbage in England?”
Nobody spoke.
Then the mysterious black square appeared.
MICHAEL (ADMIN)
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
The room erupted.
“MICHAEL!”
“HELLO, MICHAEL!”
“TURN YOUR CAMERA ON!”
“No.”
I grabbed my microphone.
“Michael, I have an announcement.”
“Oh dear.”
“After the overwhelming success of Boobiefest 2026, I think we should take the next one international.”
ES suddenly shouted.
“THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I WAS THINKING!”
“ES, HOW DID YOU GET INTO THIS CALL?”
“I’m on the planning committee!”
“THERE IS NO PLANNING COMMITTEE ANYMORE!”
Lola May laughed.
“So where are we going?”
I smiled.
“THE UNITED KINGDOM!”
Welshie cheered.
Loverboy asked whether British women appreciated American accents.
Nikki replied, “Not after meeting you.”
Then I continued.
“And I’ve got an even better idea. Let’s bring Boobiefest to Michael’s hometown so he can finally join us in person!”
Everyone cheered.
Michael cleared his throat.
“Ah. Slight problem. I’m not actually allowed to leave my house.”
The room went silent.
OG Liz whispered, “Definitely MI6.”
I shrugged.
“No problem, Michael! We’ll bring Boobiefest to YOUR HOUSE!”
“OH, GOOD HEAVENS, NO!”
“Come on! We’ll put a tent in your garden!”
“Absolutely not! I don’t want to get in trouble for organizing a riot!”
ES checked his clipboard.
“Technically, Michael, under 500 people would qualify as a private garden party.”
“ES, FIVE PEOPLE AND A BARBECUE WOULD QUALIFY AS A RIOT AT MY HOUSE!”
Lola May offered to bring tea.
Honey offered biscuits.
Sparkling offered decorations.
Loverboy volunteered to personally welcome the neighbors.
Jian-Yang asked if he could bring a barbecue.
Michael went quiet.
“Right. I’m moving.”
“Michael, we don’t even know where you live!”
“AND I’D LIKE TO KEEP IT THAT WAY.”
Then his microphone clicked off.
Five seconds later, a message appeared in the chat.
Michael (Admin): Just to clarify, this is all hypothetical. Nobody is coming to my house. Especially Loverboy. Or Jian-Yang.
Loverboy sounded offended.
“What’s wrong with me?”
Nikki replied, “How much time do you have?”
Jian-Yang added:
“Can I bring microwave?”
Michael disconnected again.
⸻
Epilogue: Deep Thoughts From Boobiefest
As the café wound down, I found myself thinking about everything that had happened.
The people we’d met.
The friendships we’d made.
The laughter.
The carnival rides.
The flying inflatable breast.
The milk disaster.
The police raid.
The dumpster fire.
And poor Keith Richards the goat.
It reminded me of something Jack Handey might have said:
Sometimes, when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. But when life gives you six goats, a bag of suspicious brownies, a man named Booger, and another man who thinks garbage is different from trash, you should probably just go home.
Or perhaps:
Friendship is a beautiful thing. Especially when you’ve known someone online for ten years and finally meet them in person, only to discover they’re three feet shorter than you imagined and smell faintly of cotton candy.
And finally:
If you ever find yourself running from the police at a carnival celebrating boobs, remember that the important thing isn’t how fast you run. It’s whether you remembered where you parked.
Just then, ES sent me a private message.
ES: GREAT NEWS! I’VE ALREADY STARTED PLANNING BOOBIEFEST 2027!
Me: ES. NO.
ES: I’ve got a new idea.
Me: ABSOLUTELY NOT.
ES: What do you think about llamas?
I stared at my phone.
Me: What happened to the goats?
ES: Too much paperwork.
Me: ES, ONE OF THEM DIED.
ES: Exactly. Llamas are taller.
I closed the app.
Turned off my phone.
And made a solemn promise to myself.
Never again.
No more carnivals.
No more livestock.
No more inflatable breasts.
No more garbage fires.
And absolutely no more organizing anything with ES.
Then my doorbell rang.
I opened the door.
Standing on my porch was Loverboy.
Wearing a tuxedo.
Holding a karaoke machine.
“Hey, buddy! ES said you’re hosting the afterparty!”
I slowly closed the door.
From inside my house, I could hear him shouting:
“COME ON! I’VE BEEN PRACTICING YOU’VE LOST THAT LOVIN’ FEELIN’!”
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Jian-Yang.
Jian-Yang: You have fireplace?
I blocked him.
And somewhere in England, Michael quietly clicked Mute All.
Good grief, I ask you to finish a sentence and you give us two entire novels! 😂 I have to give you credit, though. The imagination, the characters, the absolute insanity of it all! And Boobiefest had me laughing, especially Michael desperately trying to distance himself from the whole disaster. 🤣 You clearly put some time into these, and I really do appreciate you jumping in and having so much fun with it. Although I may have to impose a chapter limit before you turn my next little forum game into a trilogy! 😘
Lola waiting for me with her hair up in a banana clip, a fresh towel around her, candles and soft lighting. Plus this meet mischievous look.on her face.
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