Cocksucka, I don’t learn. I’m like a dog — you smack me with a newspaper, I’m still eatin’ outta the trash the next day. Couple months after that incident, I end up runnin’ into Troy's sister again. She’s wearin’ a little skirt, smellin’ like taco meat and bad decisions, and I’m thinkin’, ‘Fuck it — round two.’

But here’s where it goes sideways — we’re doin’ a few bumps in the kitchen, laughin’, gettin’ handsy, and I get a text from Beady. Says he’s “in the neighborhood” — which means he’s either sleepin’ behind a liquor store or breakin’ into one. He comes over, long neck, eyes dartin’ around like he owes the furniture money.

Next thing I know, it’s like a porno filmed in Hell. We’re tag-teamin Troy’s sister — me on one side, Beady on the other — and this lunatic’s got that nasty-ass ‘face peeler’ knife sittin’ on the nightstand like it’s a fuckin’ centerpiece. He’s whisperin’ creepy shit to himself mid-stroke, I’m sweatin’ like a mule on a Georgia highway, and the whole place smells like Canadian pennies and regret.

Halfway through, Beady starts talkin’ to the dead mouse in his pocket like it’s givin’ him coaching tips. I’m tryin’ to keep it together, but I’m laughin’ so hard I almost bust early.

We finish up, high-fivin’ like degenerates, and I swear to God — as we’re walkin’ out, I see Troy’s silhouette in the hallway again. Naked. Cryin’. Just watchin’ and playin' with himself. This time he ain’t got the gun, just that thousand-yard stare like he just saw the Zapruder film playin’ in his head.

I turn to Beady and go, ‘Let’s get the fuck outta here before we end up on a Dateline episode.’

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. His 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 pedophiles near synchronized dance numbers.

Couple weeks ago, cocksucka, I’m thinkin’ — maybe it’s time to clean up my image. I don’t wanna get cancelled before I’m dead. So I go to this trans activist rally — big crowd, rainbow flags, everybody’s holdin’ signs and dudes are wearin' dresses and shit, real positive energy.

Kristen Stewart’s up there lookin' greasier than my arteries, givin’ this heartfelt speech — real tearjerker stuff. I’m standin’ in the back, tryin’ to clap at the right times, pretend I belong.

I even wore a clean shirt — no mustard stains, nothin’. But I made the rookie mistake — two stars of death before I left the house. So I’m floatin’, cocksucka. I’m starin’ at a porta-potty like it’s a Salvador Dalí painting.

And that’s when I hear it…

Squeak… squish… squeak… squish…

The fuckin’ crowd parts — and here he comes. J-Tard. The pride of the mildew kingdom. Rollin’ in that Herman Miller chair. He’s got a rainbow flag taped to his chest with duct tape, but it’s soaked through with God-knows-what.

He’s yellin’, ‘KRISTEN! IT’S ME! I’M LITERALLY YOU!’ — and bro… he’s got her actual face printed out from a magazine and glued over his own like a third-grade art project. Only problem is it’s upside-down.

Kristen’s eyes go wide like she just saw a shark fin in a swimming pool. People start movin’ away — the smell hits. It’s that J-Tard signature… like wet cardboard, expired milk, and raccoon diarrhea.

One guy in front of me whispers, ‘Is that thing breathing?’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, unfortunately.’ The fuckin’ wheels are leavin’ stains on the asphalt. Two protesters faint.

Security drags him off like they’re takin’ down an autistic animal — he’s screamin’ about Formula 1 and callin’ everybody too poor. Kristen’s speech is over, the rally’s done, and I’m standin’ there so high I just start clappin’ again… for nobody.

Couple months back, cocksucka, I get this email: ‘You’re invited to the Netflix Wednesday premiere.’ I’m thinkin’ there’s no fuckin’ way they meant to send it to me — probably meant Joey Fatone or some shit. But I say fuck it, I’m goin’.

I don’t know nothin’ about dress codes, so I show up in jeans, a hoodie, and my lucky Reeboks. Everyone else is in three-thousand-dollar suits and gowns. I’m on the red carpet lookin’ like I just wandered out of a deli.

Before I leave the house, I eat two stars of death — 2,000 milligrams. Now I’m standin’ there, baked outta my skull, tryin’ to figure out how the fuck a flashbulb works.

Emma Myers is there — photographers screamin’ her name, ‘Emma! Emma! Over here!’ She’s glidin’ down the carpet like a chinless boy-goblin. And then…

…from the corner of my eye… I see him.

Squeak… squish… squeak… squish.

And here comes fuckin’ J-Tard — crashin’ through the crowd in that office chair like it’s the fuckin’ Indy 500. Wig hangin’ off, skin lookin’ like old lunch meat, leakin’ so bad he’s leavin’ a fuckin’ trail down the red carpet like a slug.

He’s shoutin’, ‘TIME TO GET LEWD FOR SNOOD!’ Bro — the guy’s got pieces of People magazine taped to his face. He’s got Kristen Stewart’s smile under one eye, Ryan Gosling’s chin on his forehead — lookin’ like a ransom note came to life.

Photographers are gaggin’, security’s yellin’, Emma Myers is pukin' her guts out. Reporters are tryin’ to get quotes but they can’t breathe. Somebody yells, ‘The carpet’s turnin’ colors!’ and I’m so high I’m thinkin’ this is part of the show."

They end up draggin’ him out like E.T. when the government found him — hazmat suits, plastic sheeting, the works. Moral of the story? If Netflix sends you an invite by mistake, go… but for the love of God, don’t let pedophiles in office chairs follow you.