Congratulations You Rapacious Scoundrel!

You’re quite the scoundrel.

Not like Han Solo. You’re not a crazy “playa” who saves the day and lives by his own rules. No, you’re an ascot wearing, fluffy shirted rich kid who doesn’t know how to be in a relationship and doesn’t take no for an answer.

Usually people like you get the shit kicked out of them so often and so hard that they end up giving up their scandalous ways before they’re over twenty, but you’re special. You’re really, really handsome. You’re so handsome, so fucking handsome, that even straight dudes and lesbians kinda want to fuck you. This handsomeness has kept you from being severely beaten even as you fuck our wives, our girlfriends and, upon a few occasions, our really hot grandmothers.

But sooner or later everyone’s luck runs out.

Tonight you’re going to find yourself at a state dinner, a perk of your incredible handsomeness and your tremendous wealth. You’ll be seated between the Chancellor of Germany and none other than America’s sweetheart: Michelle Obama.

Since Angela Merkel can’t really hold up to the Lady Obama’s charms (Who has a name like Merkel?! Seriously?!) you’ll spend most of the night talking to Michelle. And since you only know how to flirt with women, you’ll end up seducing her. Not because she doesn’t love her husband, and not because she’s a floozy. You’re just that amazing a flirt. Which is how you’ll end up in a bathroom with the first lady, hand up her skirt, teeth digging into her neck, asking her how long you have until Secret Service personnel bust in on you.

She won’t respond, since she’ll be really distracted by how hot you are, which is why you’ll be so shocked when a Secret Service agent kicks in the stall door and pulls Michelle Obama off of you, underpants around her knees, tongue lolling. He’ll look at the two of you, baffled, before handing the First Lady off to one of his Secret Service buddies.

He’ll keep one hand on your chest, pressing you back on to the bathroom stall, looking at you through his dark glasses with a constant frown.

“The boss won’t be happy,” he’ll mumble at you, shaking his head.

The two of you will wait this way for an endless ten minutes before Barack Obama finally shows up. He’ll enter the bathroom with all the stately grace he brings to speaking and basketball, taking off his jacket and handing it to one of the Secret Service agents watching the door. Then he’ll roll up his sleeves the way he does during a campaign speech when he wants to show he’s ready to take care of business, and he’ll wave the Secret Service agent holding you down aside.

You’ll immediately stand up and extend your hand.

“Big fan,” you’ll begin, but you won’t get a chance to get any farther. Barack Obama will slug you right in the gut, lifting you three inches off the ground with the force of his blow. You’ll rise with his fist like it’s a wave before crashing back down, your legs caving beneath you, splaying you across the floor. He’ll start walking away from you right away, letting the Secret Service agent who was holding you pick you up and wipe the spittle from your mouth.

“Have fun in Guantanamo,” he’ll say to you as he collects his jacket from one of the agents at the door. He’ll step out without putting it on, pausing to poke his head back in and offer you one last parting word.

“Prick,” he’ll utter with complete dispassion, his head and shoulders barely entering the room at all. Then he’ll leave for good, and the Secret Service agent who has been holding you will shake his head and pat you on the back.

“Tough break,” he’ll whisper in your ear. Then he’ll punch you in the face, knocking you to the ground where you’ll be cuffed, have a bag placed over your head and be dragged to a car which will swiftly carry you to a helicopter bound for Cuba.

Congratulations You Rapacious Scoundrel!