Imagine, if you will, a 36-year-old, noticeably unkempt looking lad standing 6 deep at his local bank, because one morning his mother, that he still lives with, dared to ask him to “run” to the grocery store to grab a few items to feed herself and the putrid demon child she picks up after on the daily. Somewhere between his gluten-friendly Doritos, an online session of Minecraft, his greasy iPhone and the self-checkout aisle that’s 1.74 miles away, Fuck-Face manages to misplace his ID along with his debit and Capital One Platinum with the 18 percent interest rate. (How do you misplace an ID that says Fuck-Face?)

So when he is pulled over for rolling thru a stop sign and not using his turn signal, a Rookie cop with short-man syndrome, a year of Taekwondo training wearing Dad Sunglasses asked for the lad’s driver’s license and received nothing but spittle. That’s when the tickets came flying out of the cruiser faster than Jackpot at a Native American Casino, not to mention a phone call to his mother after towing the vehicle and a notice to appear in court for driving without a license. So mom had to leave work early to pick up her woeful son, because dad…well let’s talk about dad…

Somewhere around Fuck-Face’s 21st birthday, Dad’s $80,000 communication degree from “Safe Space Community College” was starting to fail him as he was forced to work two jobs to cover his upside down mortgage and his wife’s complications from Discount Lap Band Surgery. After receiving another astronomical repair quote on his 2007 Toyota Yaris with the “Sport Package”, he felt his masculinity begin to escape thru the follicles of his poorly dyed Brownish hair and so he disappeared into the tool shed with his late father’s dusty “hand-me down”, wrapped his lips around the steel barrel and proceeded to create a skylight just above the broken lawnmower…plus one thru the back of his head for good measure. 

So now that Papa’s out of the picture, the only father figure that Fuck-Face has had in the last 15 years was an overzealous cop sending him to court to explain to some pencil pushing Judge, “why are you such a lazy piece of shit?”

As his days peel away until the dreaded court appearance, Fuck-Face must first visit the DMV to receive a temporary driver’s permit in order to go to the bank and withdraw cash from his disability check that he receives each month for his ADD and severe irritable bowel syndrome; which make it nearly impossible for this champion of basement dwelling to stand in two lines in one day.

So as Fuck-Face teeters in line at the bank, depleting the last 10 percent on his cell phone to delay his Uber pick-up and blast anyone on Twitter who talks shit about Star Wars or Game of Thrones, the Impossible Burger consumed from an 11am breakfast begins to grease the weakest points of Fuck-Face’s fragile digestive track and turn his overly medicated intestines into a soy burger slip n’ slide at light speed.

There wasn’t any time for Fuck-Faces stomach to alert his brain of the pending Holocaust in his sweatpants. Bank employees and patrons turn their heads at break-neck speed with wide-eyed horror to ponder the nostril-bending question of whether this fully-grown adult male had either Jackson Pollacked the inside of his breezy cottons, or if a Caribou had entered the lobby, hoping to open a checking account.

Due to some technical oversight in the bank’s policies and accommodations for “Patrons with Disabilities”, Fuck-Face later filed a lawsuit against the bank and settled out of court for an undisclosed amount due to his trauma…he never did make it the grocery store.

Fuck-Face isn’t just a name, Fuck-Face is a virus. It’s a virus that’s spreading into every home in the United States and other 1st world countries. It comes in the form of fraudulent allergies, pharmaceutical abuse, high-priced corporate liability, over-saturated human resource departments, diversity and inclusion training, triggering and prolonged adolescent behaviors, safe spaces, emasculated dads and whore by-night soccer moms.

Fuck-Face shit himself that fateful day and instead of cleaning himself up, he blamed everyone else for his condition and ultimately took it out on the bank for which only the employees and other patrons suffered the cost of his nihilism. He still receives a check every month from the government for his disabilities.

If you’re a parent, please talk to your child’s pediatrician about having them tested for “F-F”.

“I love all of you, but I hate everyone you know.”

-Positive Sarcasm