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“Just an average Connor X Tuesday night,” I thought as I double-dogged two broads from behind. Whoa. Hold on. Back up a minute. Rewind. Let’s start at the beginning.

I was chilling with my boys, watching “the game” and doing tequila shooters. No big whoop. Like I said, average Tuesday night. I was maybe thirty shots deep when my boy Shawn suggested we go down to the trendy new nightspot where all the vapid cunts and collar-popping asshats got together to try to bump uglies. So we all piled into the patented Connor-mobile (heh, of course I’m not drunk driving, officer…) and went to the spot.

Now bear in mind, I’ve got like seventy shots in my gut at this point, so I’m a little sloppy. But hey, I’m Connor X. The night’s just getting started.

We roll into the club and I just see this vast expanse of vapid cunts. One vapid cunt steps up to me and barks, “you’re kinda cute.” I look at my boys and just know. Countdown to destruction in five…four…three…two…I smirk and reply, “Yeah, I know. Now who ordered a doggie bag? ‘Cause we’ve got a genuine d-o-g on our hands!” Her lip quivered and then she pulled out a gun and shot her face off. Roasted. Toasted. And burnt to a crisp. I high-fived my boy Steve-o and walked to the bar.

I started pounding beer shots. I had probably eighty mugs of beer before the barkeep said, “Whoa, fella, I think you’ve had enough.” With a wide grin spreading across my beer-encrusted face, I told him, “Enough’s enough, ‘fella’.” He toppled backwards into the shelves of beer and booze and his head fell off. Score one for the Con-man.

I slammed about twenty more beerskis and…whoa. Let’s just say I was starting to feel it. “Let the games begin,” I told my boy Jakester.

I scoped out the room. “Jokers to the left of me; jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with me, myself, and I,” I thought. I scoped out one broad and the veins in her rack were busting out of their seams. I sidled up to her. “Hey, I think there’s something wrong with my receipt.”

“Hm?” she asked inquisitively.

“Yeah,” I yeahed. “It doesn’t have your number on it.”

She laughed like a hyena and then laughed some more. I took this opportunity to pound a booze shot. I had her eating out of my hands, literally!

Just then a popped-collar assbasket walked up from literally out of nowhere. “Is this guy bothering you?” he asked the broad douchely.

“Not as much as your breath is bothering me, twathandle,” I deftly proclaimed. “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, say hello to the dog-faced boy. I don’t know whether to shake your hand or give you a pat on the muzzle.”

I knew I had another burn in me before I closed the casket on this one. I tore off his popped collar and threw it across the mighty Potomac , deftly proclaiming, “Fetch, Lassie.” He aged two hundred years right before my eyes before promptly decomposing, like that dude in the end of Last Crusade. I flashed my infamous “pwned” grin and with a twinkle in my eyes, turned on “the game.”

I told the broad my infamous “dirty knees” story and before long, she was literally eating out of my hands. “I think you should meet my friend,” she flirted in my direction.

“Game on,” I volleyed back.

Flash forward to two hours later and I’m sack-deep in some premium poon tang. The two broads are doing orgasms left and right. We’re getting it on so hard. Racks are bouncing everywhere. Clits stand at attention and then nut girl stuff all over the place. You name it, these broads and I did it. 69. Doggie style. Karma sutra. Just low-down, nasty sex stuff. If I told you, you wouldn’t even believe me. Let’s just say, do the words donkey punch ring a bell? We made sex for like three days (Viagra? Yeah, right! Meet Connor-agra!) and I was just nailing these broads. Racks, boobs…you name it, I nailed it. It reminded me of the time I got a blowjob while skydiving off the Eiffel Tower . But that’s a story for another day…

Then it hit me. These weren’t just broads; they were vapid cunts. I hastily busted my nut and shuffled them out the door. “Call me?” they said in unison. “In your dreams,” I shouted back, slamming the door in their vapid faces.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. It was my boy Chas. “We’re hitting the new hotspot nightplace; you wanna come with?” Without hesitation, I duded in the affirmative. We rolled out. Oh yeah, I was also totally drunk, having done lots of beer while slamming the sleazes. But not too drunk, because I have a very high tolerance (what can I say? When you “get your drink on” as much as Connor X, you’re bound to build up a tolerance). We rolled up to the hotplace nightspot. It looked new and shiny in the crisp autumn air.

I took my pants off and we went inside. The bouncer stopped me. “What do you think you’re doing, sir?” he meekly asked. “It’s the no-pants zone and I am the zonester,” I hurled back as I strolled in with nary a care in the world. He fell backwards in his bouncer chair and cracked his skull on the baseboard. Brain matter and spinal fluid leaked out in a gross way. I didn’t give a crap.

I scoped out the broad situation. Affirmatory. Broad at 10 o’clock . I sauntered up. “I’m Connor X. Spank you very much.” She melted like butter in my hands and was also literally eating out of them. After I shot the shit with her for a while, I said, “my place or yours?” She vapidly suggested mine and we got a cab and headed back to Connor X H.Q. for a night of romance. Or so I thought. On the cab ride over, the broad began:

“I know who you are. You’re that website guy who writes purportedly true, most assuredly emotionally stunted stories about your alleged sexual misadventures. You grossly exaggerate or entirely make up stories about yourself because you so desperately seek the fraternal approval that has been missing from your life ever since you graduated college and all your friends grew up, and you know that the internet is a vast wasteland of insecure, socially inept young men who have let years of timidness and rejection fester into a palpable misogyny that your tall tales can validate, and they will worship you accordingly.

“I have no doubt that you are the ‘asshole’ you claim to be, but not in the way you claim; your stories are a study in embellishment and l’esprit d’escalier. You go out with your friends and maybe call a woman fat behind her back, but then you go home and write down everything you wish you’d been clever enough to say. Even if I’m supposed to believe you consistently have the presence of mind to cut all your adversaries to the quick with your witty barbs, if you truly drink as much as you claim, there’s no way you’d remember all your little quips.

“And anyway, even if every one of your stories is true to the word, they just show a startling hatred towards women and an utter disregard for others. You write these stories about your borderline sociopathic tendencies, demonstrating an utter inability to relate to others on a basic human level, and you’re lauded for it by thousands of internet users with a similar lack of empathy. It’s as though you’re autistic, except your inability to understand others as human beings with wants and needs just like yourself extends to a kind of malice that would never occur to someone with autism.

“You’re a sick joke. A little boy. But what’s scary is that your hostility and outright lack of any sense of connection with your fellow human beings, whether truly actualized in your supposedly factual stories or not, is something that a large sector of internet males who are similarly alienated from the rest of humanity admire and seek to emulate. You are a cancer and the world would be better off without you.”

“…”

Then we bootiefucked.