Subversion

Chapter 1
Broken Base

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Chapter Description: Comedic vignettes on offer: "Seen," "Lemonade Cryptogram," "The Abnormally Hot Teenage Girl Who Spontaneously Wets Her Bed for No Reason and Is Instantaneously Returned to Diapers by Her Parents Without So Much as a Physician’s Consultation," "Virus!," "24... 23... 22... 21...," and "Salutatorian 2017."

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None of this is canon. So if characters from my stories that you like are jerks or die or something, no worries, they’re not jerks or dead. Consider it the "Treehouse of Horror" of my stories. luvs, littletrip

I - Seen

When Kevin regained consciousness, he found himself sitting up, bound to a rusty chair by steel cuffs restraining his wrists and ankles. His eyes quickly came into focus; Kevin concluded that he was seated in the center of a large, long-abandoned room, littered with broken metal tables and empty fuel cans. A sign mounted securely above a solid-barred door read “Dilapidated Warehouses, Inc.”

More disturbing than any of this, though, was the fact that Kevin was completely naked, except for a disposable adult diaper taped securely around his loins. The tapes seemed redundant-- in fact, the waistband of the diaper was reinforced with a steel belt, at the center of which was a numeric keypad and digital display. The boy was literally locked into his diapers.

Confused and terrified, Kevin remained completely silent... but all was not silent. A distant, echoing, creaking sound could be heard. From the shadows emerged a puppet riding a tricycle. Kevin recognized it as Ernie from “Sesame Street.” Eyes wide and mouth open in perpetual joy, the Ernie puppet pedaled into the low light of the room, dragging a metallic trolley behind him, atop which sat a television.

Ernie stopped pedaling, and Kevin turned his gaze to the television. It flickered to life. There were a few seconds of fuzz, and then, a Bert puppet, solemn and joyless, stared from the screen... and right into Kevin’s soul.

“Hello, Kevin,” Bert said, in the voice of that record store owner from “Seinfeld.” “I want to play a game.

“Until you were three years old,” the doll-image continued, “you wore diapers day in and day out. Then you graduated out of them. But just because you left diapers-- that doesn’t mean the diapers ever left you.

“Ten years later, thanks to the Internet, you realized you weren’t the only pubescent boy who wanted nothing more than to wear diapers, to wet them, to stroke yourself through the crinkly plastic. And, for the next five years, you indulged this fantasy whenever possible.

“But all is not right. You are a diaper lover who hates. From ages 13 to 18, you have been a part of the AB/DL community, making very vocal indictments about fellow DLs who enjoy messing in their diapers. You call them ?sick.’ ?Twisted.’ ?Perverse.’ Certainly you, Kevin, would never do anything as unseemly as pooping the diapers you love so much.

“Shortly before you awoke, a glycerin suppository laxative was inserted into your rectum and you were imprisoned in a double-thick diaper, reinforced with an impenetrable steel belt equipped with a digital unlocking mechanism. At the end of this video, the cuffs securing to your chair will release, permitting you freedom all around this room. But your 60 seconds will begin. Unless you can find a way to unlock your diaper and rush to the toilet installed against the wall behind your chair within those 60 seconds, you will uncontrollably shit yourself with the biggest load of your life, and you will at last understand the humiliation you cause to perfectly innocent AB/DLs the Internet over.

“Your only hope is to find the unlock code. I have hidden its four digits within the pages of a book hidden amidst the fuel cans in front of you. The digits are not written on scraps of paper easily shaken from the book’s pages; they’ve been very carefully inked into the text itself, so the more you read, and the faster you do so, the more likely you are to release yourself from your infantile prison and spare yourself the ultimate indignity.”

Kevin swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Shit or dry,” the soulless Bert puppet hissed at him. “Make your choice.”

With that, the televised image collapsed into snow, the steel clamps holding the diapered Kevin to his chair released, and an analog clock on the wall began ticking down the teenager’s 60 seconds.

Kevin leapt from the chair and crinkled his way over to the fuel cans, tossing them aside until he found the book that would free him from unbearable humiliation.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered.

Fifty-five seconds remained when Kevin opened the copy of Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue. He dropped to his padded ass and got to work. With furious speed, he skimmed, he read, he absorbed, finally finding the first digit that would free him. He punched it into his diaper-belt and continued to read.

With 40 seconds to go, Kevin read all about Palin’s life and political philosophies. He could feel the intelligence melting out of his brain, leaking from his ears. The more he read of Palin’s bloviating, the more his mind mentally regressed to that of a simpleton. He found the second number and inputted it into the belt, briefly wondering how computers could be so neat like that.

Only 25 seconds remained on the clock as Kevin thumbed through the book, taking in all of Palin’s insights and noticing his definite mental regression. He sucked his thumb with one hand and held the book with the other, rocking on his diapered butt and desperately searching for the third digit. The poor boy forgot everything he learned in high school, and even junior high school, feeling himself become more infantile and incompetent as he read Palin’s words. At last, he found what he’d been looking for, and punched the third digit into the control panel securing his belt.

Since when do buttons make numbers happen? he wondered in his clouded mind.

Kevin had a mere 10 seconds to free himself from his diaper and unload into the toilet like a big boy, and an extremely painful cramp ripped through his colon to remind him of his predicament. His rectum began to fill with a load desperately wanting out. Only one more number. Only one.

The teenage boy shoved his naked toes into his mouth and sucked them earnestly as he read Going Rogue with desperate fervor. As he read more and more of Palin’s words, he found himself picking his nose, scratching his diapered butt, and wondering why he was reading something he could probably be watching in a movie theater in a few years anyway. In the process, he lost everything-- elementary school education, basic math, even the names of colors.

With four seconds left on the clock, Kevin suddenly realized he didn’t know how to read. He had been robbed of every last modicum of intelligence he had amassed over his 18 years. All hope of locating that crucial fourth number -- What’s a “number?” -- was gone.

Weak and unsure, Kevin struggled to his bare feet. He dropped the book, now little more than a paperweight to him and millions of other people. He closed his eyes, bit his lip, and squatted, hands-on-knees, as his 60 seconds ran out.

Kevin grunted and groaned as he forced a stiff, solid load of crap out of his body and into his diaper. His eyes crossed. His spine tensed. He slapped his knees in frustration as he just kept pooping, and pooping, and pooping. The back of his diaper expanded with brown and stink, and, as he’d given up all hope of controlling his muscles, the front of his diaper flooded with hot piss.

The feeling in front was as erotic as Kevin had always known it to be. The feeling in back, not so much... but, as the 18-year-old finally pinched off the last of his two-pound load, he found himself incredibly aroused by the sensation of the back of his diaper sagging down his thighs.

He had a massive orgasm, fell to his ass, and sucked his thumb with ferocity. The sheer joy of his situation caused Kevin to pump a full 15 contractions of cum into the front of his locked diaper. He relished in the knowledge that he was what he forever would be... a big, big baby, enamored by the sensations of shitting his diapers, sucking his toes, and shooting deer from helicopters.

The Bert puppet flashed back onto the TV screen, grinning in victory.

“Game over.”

II - Lemonade Cryptogram

He couldn’t believe he had managed to pull it off. On his 23rd birthday, two years to the evening after they had met, Eric had at last convinced Karen to indulge his deepest, darkest fantasy. And though many would have found it an odd sight, Eric felt perfectly content sprawled across the couch on top of his girlfriend’s lap, naked except for a white disposable diaper, preparing to nurse lemonade from a baby bottle.

“I don’t know, Eric...” Karen had said. “The whole idea weirds me out a bit. Just a bit.”

“Pweeeaaase?” Eric had replied, chuckling. “Just for tonight? It’s my birthday, babe.”

“Alright. Just for tonight.”

Eric squirmed in Karen’s lap and let out a cheerful giggle around the nipple, thrilling at the sensation of the underside of his impossibly hard cock sliding along the front panel of the tightly-taped diaper. He was in ecstasy. And Karen, always the sport, smiled down at him, holding the bottle upright against her boyfriend’s lips as he took his first suckle of the cool lemonade.

As soon as the fluid hit his tongue, Eric ripped his mouth away from the bottle and spit a mouthful of yellow liquid all over his face and chest. “Pfleth!” he hacked. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s lemonade, sweetheart,” Karen replied, “just like you asked for.”

“That shit ain’t lemonade,” Eric said, tapping the baby bottle with his index finger.

“It’s Country Time Lemonade!”

“Country Time is not lemonade, Karen! It’s a bunch of fake lemon-flavored sugar powder!”

“Then why the hell does it say ?Country Time Lemonade’ on the canister, dear?” Karen demanded. “Why doesn’t it say ?Country Time Fake Shit: Piss Off Your Adult Baby Boyfriend for a New Low Price?’”

“Jesus Christ, Karen,” Eric whined. “It’s my birthday. Can’t you just make me some real lemonade? Please?”

“Fine, fine,” the girl sighed. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” She rolled Eric’s diapered body off her lap and onto the floor, then walked into the kitchen to make things right.

Minutes later, Eric found himself back in Karen’s lap, gently rubbing the bruise he’d developed on his forehead after smacking the coffee table on his way down. His cock was hard again inside his diaper, and Karen slid her hand down the front to give a few loving strokes to the throbbing meat. Then, she brought the baby bottle of new, fresh, non-Country Time lemonade to her boyfriend’s lips and inserted the nipple.

Eric nursed a mouthful of lemonade from the bottle. His eyes tightened up, he squealed in pain, and he forcefully spat the liquid up onto his girlfriend’s face.

“What did you do?” he demanded. “How did you make that shit?”

Karen jerked her hand out of Eric’s diaper. “It’s lemonade!” she protested. “It’s not fake sugar shit! I took five lemons, cut them in half, and juiced them all into your baby bottle! Lemonade!”

“That’s not lemonade!” Eric howled, the tartness having brought tears to his eyes. “Lemon juice does not constitute lemonade! Lemonade consists of lemon juice, AND water, AND sugar! Sugar!”

“What the hell, Eric! First you don’t want ?fake sugary powder,’ and now you want me to pump your sick veins full of sugar! Make up your goddamned mind!”

Eric had again lost his erection. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead in both pain and frustration. “Please, Karen. Please. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Just dump a third of that out, cut the rest of it with tap water, and throw in a few tablespoons of sugar. Shake it up. Lemonade.”

“Fine. Whatever. Jesus.” Karen again got up from the couch, returned to the kitchen and set to the task of preparing her spoiled boyfriend’s custom recipe. In the living room, Eric laid back, tried to stabilize the taste in his mouth, and started idly massaging his developing hardon from outside his diaper.

By the time Karen returned to the living room, Eric was sitting up in the center of the couch, his legs hanging off and his arms slack at his sides. His eyes were closed and he was struggling to catch his breath.

“Don’t bother, babe,” he panted. “I came in my diaper while you were in the kitchen. Couldn’t wait.”

Without a word, Karen unscrewed the nipple from Eric’s bottle of ice-cold lemonade, pulled open the front of the boy’s sticky diaper, and dumped every last ounce of lemon juice, water, sugar, and ice onto his wilting cock.

Eric’s scream of pain was epic. He said nothing. His penis shrinking into his body like a frightened turtle, Eric could only whine and shed a solitary tear of agony.

“Well,” Karen smiled, leaning down to give her boyfriend a kiss on the cheek, “just 364 days before we can do this again.”

III - The Abnormally Hot Teenage Girl Who Spontaneously Wets Her Bed for No Reason and Is Instantaneously Returned to Diapers by Her Parents Without So Much as a Physician’s Consultation

Oh no! Jamie who was a very hot 15-year-old girl said as she woke up in a wet bed. “I wet the bed? What will my parents think!!

- Jamie walked down the stairs downstairs carrying all of her wet clothes and wet sheets and wet blankets and wet comforter in her arms (or wet arms I guess). she tried to sneak past her parents but she was carrying 20 pounds of urine-soaked linen so.

- “Oh my God Jamie did you wet the bed. Said her mom. “Drop that landry right there young lady. Your dad will take care of that.”

- Oh no!” said Dad from the newspaper. “Landry again? crap!”

- “I am going to put you right back into dipers!” said mom JAnie’s mom. Get back up to your bed young lady! Forchunately I have a bunch of dipers just your size in my closet for some raisin!”

- Embarased Jamie walked naked back up to her bed. She walked up the stairs naked and she had no close on. She was naked as she went to her room and she had boobs that you could see. They juggled.

- Jamie started sucking her thumbas her mom dipered her. she never sucked her thumb before but believe me its hot. There is a lot of powder and then Mom fastens the tape and jamie is now in nothing but a diper. (or diper i should say.) You could still see her boobs which juggle.

- “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” Jamie screamed as she peed a whole bunch into her diper which turned yellow with her pee urine. then as soon as that happened she popped in her dipers a lot and it smellt real bad (or smelt real awful I guess i should say in this case).

- Looks like you need a diper change young ladie!” Cried Mom!

- This is only the first part, there are going to be 19 more! Come back soon to see a venture

IV - Virus!

Nina Berkeley sat on the edge of the examination bed, trying -- and failing -- to hold back tears. She wiped away a few of them, smearing her mascara, as she nervously waited for her general practitioner to return to the office with his diagnosis.

The young woman had never been so scared in her life. She knew she wasn’t 16 years old... at least, she hadn’t been during last year’s visit. She found her new body radically changed and unfamiliar. Nina clearly remembered having been a very different age at one time, and Dr. Crentist was her last hope at getting to the bottom of her transformation. She deliberately feared the worst in hopes of not being crushed by devastating news.

When the doctor returned to his office to deliver the diagnosis to Nina, his face was pallid and solemn.

“It was good of you to come in, Miss Berkeley,” Dr. Crentist began, “especially as soon as you did.”

Nina swallowed the lump in her throat. “So something is definitely wrong with me?”

The doctor nodded at her, then turned his attention to the papers attached to his clipboard. “According to all of our tests -- blood, hormone, height-weight, every conceivable metric of human development -- you are, in fact, a 16-year-old girl.”

The teenager in the paper gown sobbed softly. She said nothing, and the doctor continued.

“And, according to our records, we conducted several of those same tests this time last year, and the results were...”

Nina Berkeley shut her eyes as tightly as she could. She didn’t want to hear it.

“Well, you were 15 years old.”

The girl stopped sobbing and broke out into uncontrollable tears. “What is it?” she choked out between airless gasps. “What’s causing this?”

Dr. Crentist sat at his chair and pulled a binder of recent research from his desk. “It’s a virus, basically. At least, that’s what we think it is-- it doesn’t seem treatable by antibiotics, Children’s Motrin, or even cocaine. My profession is just now starting research on it. It’s referred to as the ?AP Virus’ -- the ?AP’ stands for ?Age Progression.’”

Nina caught her breath and sniffled. “How did I catch it?”

The doctor glanced at his binder. “Probably from the municipal water supply. Easiest way to explain it and get on with the story.”

“What can I expect?”

Dr. Crentist looked into the terrified Nina’s eyes with intimidating sincerity. “Quite simply, every 24 hours, you will age... 24 hours.”

“No... no...”

“We’re finding the AP Virus popping up in maternity wards all over the city,” the doctor exposited. “It’s like the babies become infected as soon as they leave the birth canal and are exposed to the atmosphere. We think it’s a chemical reaction... all of that hospital oxygen, combined with the aerosolized emetic disgustingness of the meatloaf served to the patients. Could be the peas, too. Might be the peas.”

Nina was beginning to compose herself, having exhausted herself into resignation. “What’s the prognosis?”

“Well, for the babies that catch the AP Virus at birth, it’s pretty bleak,” said Crentist. “Barring any other medical complications, newborns who’ve contracted the AP Virus have... 85, 90 years max.”

The girl nodded. “And for me?”

“You’re 16,” acknowledged the doctor. “I’d give you maybe only 69, 74 years.”

Nina cried again, and Dr. Crentist stood up to comfort her. He rested his hand on her back and promised he’d keep a vigilant watch on her condition.

“How do you want us to treat this in the mean time?” asked the kind old doctor.

With a wipe of her eyes and another sniffle, Nina found she could talk again. “Cocaine.”

“Cocaine it is, then,” smiled Crentist, pulling out his prescription pad. “I’ll write us each several prescriptions for cocaine and we’ll see how it goes. Just don’t forget to schedule a follow-up appointment with the receptionist. And I’m afraid your co-pay’s gone up from $15 to $25.”

Again, Nina Berkeley could only cry.

V - 24... 23... 22... 21...

“Chloe, gimme something,” Jack Bauer gasped as he ran up the skyscraper’s stairwell. His cell phone felt slick in his sweat-coated hand. “I need some information and I need it yesterday.”

“Alright, Jack!” replied the mousy voice. “Apparently there’s a device on the roof of the skyscraper. Kind of like an EMP, but nothing like one. Because instead of emitting an electromagnetic pulse, it’s going to turn everybody in the city into babies. So... is it an ARMP? ARP? What do you think--”

“DAMMIT, Chloe!” Jack shouted. “Acronyms are of no concern to me right now! We need to disable this bomb!”

“I agree, Jack.”

“DAMMIT!!” Jack closed his cell phone and slipped it into his pocket, putting his assault rifle at the ready.

It had not been a good day for Jack Bauer. He was stuck in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a city about as interesting as wallpaper paste, conducting a symposium on driving sharp things into people. Hours before his speech was scheduled to start, an urgent message from Tulsa CTU: a renegade rebel rogue had developed an age regression bomb and smuggled it onto the top of that building in Tulsa with the trapezoid-shaped penthouse. Worse yet, Jack hadn’t enough milk that morning to properly moisten his Crispix, and the pear he had selected for breakfast was already overripe. Several grocers died for these reasons.

“SON OF A BITCH!!” Jack gasped, apropos of nothing, as he bounded up the stairs and finally reached the door to the roof. He plunged through it, lined up the mad bomber in his rifle-sights, and initiated an overly long and drawn-out standoff.

“PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN!!” Jack shouted, taking the terrorist by surprise.

“I’m not holding a weapon,” replied the terrorist. “It’s this bomb right here. It’s sitting on the roof. That’s all.”

“DAMMIT!!” shouted Jack. He sized up the terrorist, ultimately concluding he was Middle-Eastern, probably Muslim, because Joel Surnow is the showrunner, and Joel Surnow makes Rush Limbaugh look like Keith Olbermann.

“DAMMIT!!” he shouted again.

“Look, don’t you see?” asked the terrorist. “If everybody in Tulsa becomes babies again, it will accomplish something. Something great for us. It doesn’t matter what, specifically, since we gave up on plot and things like that several seasons ago.”

“DAMMIT SON OF A BITCH!!”

The terrorist pulled a small remote control from his vest. He readied his hand on the button.

Jack lunged for him, tackling him to the cement. He then began to shove a whole bunch of different sharp things into his body for no reason whatsoever. As the terrorist lay screaming and squirming, Jack tortured him to the best of his abilities, eventually showing him the entirety of Kung Fu Hustle.

“Alright, ALRIGHT!!” begged the terrorist.

“DAMMIT!!” Jack replied.

“I will spare the citizens of Tulsa,” the Middle-Easterner grinned. “But you, my friend... not so lucky.”

With that, the terrorist zapped Jack with an AR Tazer, shocking the agent back to young adulthood, then adolescence, then toddlerhood, and finally infancy. Though the city had been spared, Jack Bauer would have to use the next several decades to amass all the special training he’d spent his life accruing. Also he’d have to learn how to use a toilet again, and how to brutalize toddlers to get their toys.

Baby Jack was not happy about this. “Daa-haa-met!!” he squeaked as he leapt upon the terrorist, ripping the man’s larynx from his throat and proceeding to consume him alive. Not so easy with gums, but, fuck, man, it’s Jack Bauer.

VI - Salutatorian 2017

Edward Bernard was not like the other members of his Cornell University graduating class of 2017. He had spent his life enjoying a particularly useful psychic gift; his power of suggestion and influence over reality was so strong that whatever declaration he made instantly became true. It made life worlds easier. Eddie could heal suffered injuries with the mere tone of his voice. He could rehabilitate criminals by wiping their minds of any and all desires to go up against the law. He made it easy for other people to write erotic transformation stories without having to blow thousands of words on needless exposition.

None of that, though, had been enough to secure him valedictorian status -- the top of his graduating class -- on the day of the University’s commencement ceremony. Eddie had vowed on the day of his matriculation not to use his psychic powers to improve his grades or gain an unfair advantage over his peers. As a consequence of his honor, a one Martin Keenan became Valedictorian 2017... leaving Edward Bernard as salutatorian, with 0.01 of a grade point separating them.

Eddie hated second place. He wasn’t used to it and its foreignness made him uncomfortable. So, in the late morning hours of graduation day in Cornell’s Schoellkopf Stadium, as Martin began delivering his valedictorian speech to an audience of thousands, Edward leapt onto the platform and grabbed the microphone from his academic rival.

“Yo, Martin,” Eddie said, his voice echoing throughout the open-air stadium, “I’m really happy for you, and I’mma let you finish, but I had some of the best grades of all time!”

Boos from the amassed audience. Not because of the interruption, but because that particular meme had ceased to be funny nearly eight years prior.

“I gotta tell you a little secret about Martin,” Eddie announced to the audience, the shocked-to-silence valedictorian standing off to the side. “All he’s wearing is a disposable diaper.” And it was true. “And this diaper has both unlimited capacity and perfect elasticity. And this kid can’t stop shitting. At all.”

Martin Keenan, standing, humiliated, in front of thousands, wearing just an adult diaper, felt the most painful cramps of his life whip through his intestines. Seconds later, he bent over, grabbed both knees, and started pushing a load of crap into the seat of his diaper.

The seat of his diaper quickly filled with the 22-year-old’s mushy load... but there was no relief. He just kept shitting. The back of his diaper became the size of a bowling ball, then a basketball. Nothing leaked out of the legbands or from the top of the waistband, but the perfectly-elastic diaper showed no signs of bursting as Martin helplessly dumped the equivalent of eight, then nine full loads into his infantile garment.

-15 MINUTES LATER-

The stadium was in chaos. Security guards tried desperately to usher students and families out of the emergency exits in an orderly fashion.

Martin was howling, lying on his stomach on the front platform, pounding his fists on its surface as he kept pooping his diaper, which had become the size of several elephants. The smell was unbearable. Escaping attendees vomited from the bleachers and several low-flying birds fell from the sky, crashing legs-up to the stadium turf.

An anxious Eddie realized he hadn’t quite thought his plan all the way through. After taking far too long to savor the spectacle from the central platform, the college senior tried to make his escape. He ran for the stage’s stairs. The only words Eddie managed to get out were “Martin’s no longer--” before the rapidly-expanding diaper trapped the panicked young psychic against a wall of amplifiers. He found himself unable to move or speak, trapped between stinking, shit-packed plastic and heavy, floor-mounted speakers. With one more relieved grunt from Martin, the diaper expanded further, splitting Edward Bernard apart like a ripe grapefruit.

-30 MINUTES LATER-

Edward had been the only casualty, as Cornell’s crack security staff had managed to evacuate the entire stadium in a quick and orderly fashion. They had been inspired and emboldened by the University’s latest slogan, adopted just one year earlier in 2016: “At Cornell, you’ll probably never be crushed to death by supernaturally-expanding diapers.”

But the worst was yet to come. In fact, it was coming, because things were worse than pretty bad. The worst yet, at least. It kept getting worse, of course, so the worst continued coming, hurtling inexorably toward the present. Which was becoming increasingly worse.

Martin’s gargantuan diaper had already expanded to all walls of the stadium, pushing against them and sending the entire complex crashing to the ground in a holocaust of steel and concrete. A Google Satellite Live feed of the situation showed, in the stadium’s place, a 37-ton diaper full of shit. And an exhausted, crying Martin sticking out of it somewhere. He was still pooping, by the way, because things were getting worse.

-10 MINUTES LATER-

News helicopters were ordered out of Ithaca’s airspace as the New York National Guard was called in to handle the situation. The University’s rich, 152-year history was history, each of the campus’s buildings having been crushed to bits by the world’s most cataclysmic pair of Pampers.

As the diaper’s plastic began to encroach on other buildings in the Ithaca area, pilots in scrambled jets pleaded for orders from their commanding officers.

“Captain,” radioed one pilot, “there’s some serious shit going on down there. We need orders and we need them now.”

“Crap!” stomped the frazzled Captain, operating from an underground bunker. “One wrong move and this whole operation goes down the toilet.”

“Repeat, Captain?” radioed another pilot. “We have lock-on. Repeat, we are locked on target, Goodyear Blimp-sized diaper filled with Mauritania’s annual feces production. Permission to fire.”

“Permission granted,” radioed the Captain.

Three jets launched batteries of Indian Nag surface-penetrating anti-tank missiles at the ever-burgeoning diaper. Each heat-seeker found its white, smelly target, obliterating it into a torrential hail of crap and diaper filling. An uninjured Martin Keenan managed to crawl away from the carnage; since he was no longer wearing the cursed diaper inflicted upon him by Eddie, his bowels finally came to a rest. Seconds later, Ithaca, New York was covered in Martin’s poop.

All told, it was one of Cornell’s more interesting commencement ceremonies.

THE END

Thanks for reading. -lt

 

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