Couple months back, cocksucka, I’m sittin’ at home stoned to the fuckin’ gills. It’s 2:30 in the morning, I’m tryin’ to order tickets to the Pop-Tart convention — my Mecca, okay? Frosted strawberry, s’mores, that brown sugar cinnamon that’ll give you diabetes by lunchtime — I’m ready to live.

But I’m so fuckin’ high, instead of Pop-Tart tickets… I buy seats to a fuckin’ K-POP concert. Some group called Loona. I thought ‘Loona’ was a new pastry flavor. Turns out it’s twelve little Korean girls singin’ about love and friendship, which is the exact opposite of what I needed.

So now it’s the day of the concert. I’m like, ‘Alright, let’s make the best of it.’ I eat TWO stars of death — that’s 2,000 milligrams, cocksucka. That’s the edible dosage where you either time travel or shit yourself tryin’.

I get there… 6,000 teenagers in pastel skirts and glitter makeup. I’m in the middle like a gorilla that wandered into a Hello Kitty store — then I hear it…

Squeak… squish… squeak… squish.

The crowd splits in half like the last scene of Ghostbusters… and there he is. J-Tard. The king of human mildew. He’s in that Herman Miller chair, rollin’ forward like a slow-motion car crash. His skin’s three different colors — none of ‘em healthy. He’s cock's leakin' mushroom soup.

He’s got a crusty blonde wig on sideways, shoutin’, ‘OUTTA MY WAY, I’M BASED!’ And bro — the smell… The smell was like if you boiled an old gym sock in raccoon piss and let it sit in the sun for a month. People were cryin’.

The girls in Loona stop mid-song like they hit an invisible wall and start throwin' up on stage — glittery K-Pop puke, cocksucka. Security’s runnin’ in with gloves and masks, fans are stampeding like a fuckin’ kaiju just hit Seoul.

Lights on, announcement: ‘Concert cancelled due to biohazard conditions.’ Moral of the story? Never put mutants near synchronized dance numbers.

Couple weeks ago, I go to the fuckin’ doctor, cocksucka. I got this boil on my ass the size of a baby’s fist. I’m sittin’ in the waiting room, tryin’ to be civilized, you know? Reading Highlights magazine like a gentleman. And then…

He rolls in on his office chair wearin' a soupy wig. The mutant. The fuckin’ legend. J-Tard. Smells like a wet sock that’s been in a gym bag since ‘94. And he’s got this… thing on his crotch. Not a rash, not a bruise — a FUNGUS. This fuckin’ fungus is BREATHIN’. I swear to God, you could see it pulsing. Every time it moved, I could hear a lil’ ‘hhhhh’. Like it was thinking.

And what’s he doin’? He’s not lookin’ at a chart. He’s not readin’ a pamphlet. He’s cuttin’ out celebrity faces from the waiting room magazines — Kristen Stewart, Emma Myers, fuckin’ Tom Selleck — and stickin’ them to his face with ChapStick. He’s lookin’ around like, ‘They’ll never know… I AM Kristen Stewart. I'm BASED!'

Some old lady’s sittin’ there for her blood pressure check, she looks at him, and he just winks and goes, ‘It’s me, Emma Myers. Do you have any sexy shota grandsons you can set me up with?’ Like, BRO… EMMA MYERS DOESN’T OOZE.

And the fungus? I swear it got bigger while we waited. I’m watchin’ it like it’s a fuckin’ Chia Pet from Hell. I’m sittin’ there for 40 minutes, and by the end it’s got a shadow. Like it’s about to apply for its own Social Security number.

Doc finally calls me in, lances my ass-boil — two minutes, done. But J-Tard? They had to call in a botanist, a hazmat team, and a priest. Moral of the story, cocksucka: if your fungus is BREATHIN’, stay home. And don’t pretend to be a female in public, you diseased diddler fuck.