Congratulations on Appropriating Disasters for Your Own Inane Purposes!

After a natural disaster strikes, or an unnatural disaster, or a random spike of spiteful chance, there's really only one thing to do: get fuckin'.  But sometimes bitches don't wanna fuck.

"My dad died in the twin towers!" one of them might say.

"My child is in that building still!" another might whine.

Bitches, man, right?

Well, you're gonna make sure that you're in a place where the only people you're around have as little to lose as you do come next news-making disaster of staggering proportion.  But in order to do so, you'll have to engineer a massive disaster (sewage treatment plant you work at malfunctions in such a way that it spews diarrhea on a nearby school full of children with Down's Syndrome) and then post up and wait for the tears to roll out and the poon to flow.

When news breaks in the shithole bar you've set yourself up in, a woman next to you will start crying right out the gate.  You'll lay your hand on her shoulder and whisper in her ear.

"Baby, I'm sorry those kids are covered in diarrhea but those little retards will be fine eventually, and I think we should go and make ourselves a little retardo baby of our own."

She'll look at you, punch you in the face, and then shout:

"MY SON ATTENDS THAT SCHOOL, AND MY HUSBAND OWNS THAT SEWAGE TREATMENT PLANT!  YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS, YOUNG MAN!"

Then she'll stomp out the door, into the harsh light of day, framed, as she leaves, by the looming diarrhea cloud spreading across the skyline.

You'll look at the bar tender then shrug.

"Bitches, right?"

Congratulations on Appropriating Disasters for Your Own Inane Purposes!