The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Serious Buisness Kerfuffle

Whoever codified the Geneva Conventions and didn't add ticking as a non-conventional means of torture should be thrown to hell and tickled for eternity. Forget waterboarding — this is the real deal. 

You can't control it, you're out of breath, and you get a sore throat. Every inch of your body constricts like a worm while you're both crying and laughing, fixing your torturer a positive reaction that his tight 5 standup routine couldn't get, even after a two-drink minimum. All I'm saying is that getting tickled is worse than being punched in the dick. 

In fact, I would very much prefer to be dick-punted than to be fingered like a piano by two of the most sausage-fingered weirdos this side of any clandestine finger-fighting league, of which I had to infiltrate once posing as a Nicaraguan wrestler nicknamed "El Finger Magicos." 

As to why I had to do it, it's hard to tell when I'm pissing my pants. What is with today and me doing biological functions on my clothes? Thankfully, thanks to a freakish high school accident, my pee smells like passion fruit juice. Again, something I would love to further elaborate on if it weren't for my body slowly losing consciousness from asphyxiation, or choking on my spit, or an aneurysm.

Again, ticking is a murder method not codified, and one you can easily get away with. 

"aight, that's enough," says the teenage mafioso. 

As the two gorillas move to reveal the torturous twink, I leak through virtually every orifice in my body. And yes, it is as hot as you may think it is. 

The petite soft-drink grabs me by my strong, chiseled chin, and immediately pulls back as blood trickles down his finger. When I say that my chin is sharp, I mean it. 

"so," says the Lilliputian lawbreaker, "are you gonna do it, or naw?"

It is to note that he did a snap sound between the "it" and the "or naw." I feel whatever the male equivalent of a big thot energy coming from him. 

Also, what?

"What thing?" I say between breaths. 

He looks at me for a second, then at his goons for two more, and then at me for a second further. I know that vacant look of a cow getting ready to be turned into a burger — he is monologuing. 

"oh, so you're mocking my stease, aren't ya?" says the beautiful bandit. "jus' because of my boyish looks, my socially conscious twitter feed, and my funky fresh style, do i have to be sum kind of dolt?" 

"No!" I say, trying to cut him off. "I'm just saying that-"

"youse sayin' that just because i have soft skin, incredibly luscious lips, and naturally perfect hair, it means i'm a disappointment, dad? don't i make you proud, dad?" he says, punctuation every comma with a shove. 

"Dude, I think you're working on some issues there," I say. "But that's not the point, you forgot to-" I begin to say, but he shoves a finger in my mouth. I think he tried to put it over my mouth, but overshot it. He tastes like coconut cream pie. 

"no, no. don't waste your breath," says the metrosexual monster. "i understand. i look soft and cuddly, so you wanna trample me. you're dead wrong, mister. guys, make him cry."

As the two punching bags of noodles play me like a sax, I can barely get out a simple fact that this banana for brains seems to be missing. 

"You didn't tell me what you want!" I say between cackles. 

Both of the goons stop mid-tickle, making me lose my balance. As I hit the floor, I realize that while my pee smells like passionfruit juice, it most definitely doesn't taste like it.