Congratulations on Doing the Math!

You’ll be doing it in your office on a blackboard while wearing a lab coat. You’ll be in the middle of a particularly difficult equation trying to remember just what FOIL stands for when your implausibly attractive assistant bursts in to give you the bad news.

“Telescopes have spotted an asteroid,” she’ll say, her heaving bosom barely contained by the combined efforts of her tank-top and her lab coat. She’ll be leaning forward when she says it, searching for something among the scattered papers of your desk, which will make doing math really really hard.

“Collision course?” you’ll say, your social dysfunction and assistant’s breasts combining to remove most of your capacity for language in the face of certain crisis. She’ll nod tersely in response and suddenly you’ll be able to do math again. “Go to Starbucks,” you’ll shout at your assistant, tossing a crumpled five at her. She’ll pick it up off the floor with a look of shock on her face and then run out of your office to smell the dollar bill and ram it into her underpants because she’s super aroused when men in positions of authority mistreat her.

With your assistant gone you’ll remember how to FOIL and get past the tough part of the asteroid destroying equation you’ll be working on. You’ll make all kinds of crazy numbers and symbols and shit using chalk and at one point you’ll have the stick of chalk in your mouth and your assistant will walk in with coffee and put it on your desk and just sit and watch you for a while. She’ll strongly consider touching herself while she watches you do math but she’ll be worried that it would distract you so she’ll contain herself just barely and just stare at your back while you scribble on the board.

After almost an hour of her watching you while you occasionally sip coffee and talk under your breath like Jeff Goldblum you’ll have finished most of the equations, but you’ll find yourself stuck on an equation which should be incredibly easy. You’ll be so stressed and horny that you won’t be able to do it at all, though.

Lucky for you your assistant will want to prove herself to you so she’ll step up to the board and solve the shit out of that equation, coming up with the exact angle of approach needed for the missile filled with astronauts to succeed at its implausible mission. You’ll also discover, through the equation, that the two of you need to be on that missile for the mission to succeed.

“We might not make it back,” you’ll tell your assistant gruffly, and she’ll nod in response before unzipping your pants and fellating you for between seven and twelve minutes. After that you’ll sweep all your papers off your desk and have rough, cathartic sex on it for twenty-three minutes before showering together and calling the pentagon to let them know you have a plan.

Congratulations on Doing the Math!