In the land of cracked knuckles and midnight grunts,
Where shirts feared buttons and hygiene was a front,
There dwelled a legend—a tempest, a king,
Joey the Man’s Man, unyielding as spring.
No napkin dared touch his caveman maw,
Plates were but weakness—he scoffed at such law.
Toilets wept silently when Joey was near,
For his exit left echoes, but wiped nothing clear.
He danced in the beds of the strongest and bold,
Not out of desire, but conquest untold.
“Women are simple,” he muttered with flare,
“I seek to wrestle where gods wouldn’t dare.”
But fate had a plan, cruel and tight-lidded,
A jar of pickles, cold, smugly hid.
Joey squared off with muscle and wrath,
Veins like rivers, arms carved in his path.
Days passed, the jar remained sealed in spite,
Joey’s glare cracked mirrors in moonlight.
Friends advised tricks—the water, the tap—
But Joey spat thunder, “I won’t fall into that trap.”
He stood in the mirror, a titan undone,
Murmured, “This is it. My war is won... by a jar?”
And then—*nothing*. No stomp, no scream,
Just a silence profound, like ending a dream.
Search parties launched in denim and sweat,
They hunted for footprints, a trail, a threat.
But Joey was gone, like beer from the fridge,
Vanished beyond reason, off fate’s bitter ridge.
And so did the world begin to shift light,
Gym memberships dropped overnight.
Grills gathered dust, fists turned to fans,
The age of testosterone lost its last stand.
Legend has it, should a jar ever stall,
Look to the mirror in bathroom hall.
And if your soul trembles, your forearms twitch—
Know Joey still watches, and that jar was a witch.
No comments:
Post a Comment