The story so far:
Jim, ugly creep who is constantly rejected by women, is on holiday and gets facelift by strange doctor. Wakes up to find in addition to new face, every woman wants to fuck him. Instead of using power to fuck lots of women, he gets into long-term relationship with hotel receptionist resembling Cameron Diaz (or potentially Gwyneth Paltrow), but who, after quitting drugs, gets like really, really fat. Oh, yeah, and in the middle of all this is a sentient transparent wall that keeps changing the size of Jim's dick, and which has powers that only seem to work ironically. The wall, not the dick. At the end of Part 2, the wall had agreed to make Michelle thin again.
"Jesus," said the wall, "is there really gonna be a Part 3 to this shit?"
Yes, my child.
"Oh, shit. Jesus, is that you?"
No, of course, not, dummy. That would be stupid.
"As opposed to the previous two chapters?"
It's all going to make sense soon. Honest.
"Oh, all right then. I guess I'll keep going with this."
#
"Zap," the wall said.
A flash of bright light filled the room, and suddenly the plot became coherent again, and it was indeed the doctor who had given Jim both his new face and big dick, a dick which was only changing sizes because he was getting, like, erect or flaccid or whatever, and it wasn't really magic at all. Jim hadn't really impregnated Michelle's mother, and Michelle's parents had not gotten separated because of some alleged DNA test that she, Michelle's mother, refused to take. The stuff about Jim's job and his affairs all really happened though.
"What the fuck, man?" Jim cried aloud.
"What's the problem?" Wall said.
"You just retconned everything. And Michelle's still a fat whale."
"Yeah. Ironic, huh?"
"How is it ironic?" Jim crossed his arms.
"Well, you weren't expecting it, were you?"
"No, I guess not. But if none of it ever happened, how come I remember it all?"
"Oh. Well, I guess that's pretty ironic too, when you think about it."
"What are you two babbling about?" Michelle said, stuffing her face with a tray of cooked French fries.
"Nothing, honeybunny. Say, where did you get those fries? I never put them on to cook."
"Fries," Michelle said, stuffing more into her mouth.
Jim looked back at the wall accusatively. "You didn't make her a retard, did you?"
"No..." Wall said. "I think she's just preoccupied."
"Michelle, what's two plus two?" Jim said.
"Fries. Ketchup."
Jim looked back on the wall in horror. "She
is
retarded!"
"What can I say," Wall said. "Junk food'll rot your brain."
Jim sighed deeply. "So much for making the plot coherent."
"What?" Wall said. "It's coherent. Look, you have a fat, retarded wife, and—"
"Stop, stop, stop!!"
"All right, fine. Let me see if I can change it back. Zap."
A flash of blue light consuming the room, French fries turning into mushrooms in bloom, boom, it's Joe Rogan, Jamie can you pull up your pants? My name's Jim, not Jamie, and why does my wife look like Joe Rogan? Well you see, began the wall, everyone likes Joe Rogan and hardly anyone liked Michelle, how could I tell? The previous two parts aren't even out yet. No sweat. This is pure statistics—people want hot chicks and big dicks, but not together, unless its one going into the other. Oh brother, stop complaining and let it go, Michelle is gone and here is Joe:
—That is fascinating. I wonder if chimps smoke weed in the wild?
—Well, uh, that's an interesting question. (The guest is Jordan B. Peterson)
Joe waits patiently for an answer.
—Ok, so, if we're going to talk about chimps, we must also talk about...bananas. And...you see...bananas aren't weeds, they have a lot of bloody utility for chimps. We can't expect...chimps...to smoke bananas now, can we?
Joe's eyes grow wider and a chimpish grin stretches across his face.
—And now the banana, you look at a banana, Joe, and uh...you see a symbol there. A phallic symbol, if you will. Now the phallus, Joe, the phallus is a representation of man, isn't it? The prototypical representation of man is of course the father, and well that is, when you take a systematic, conceptualized look at the whole bloody thing, is the root of the patriarchal structure you see in society today.
Joe's eyes bloodshot from staring (and from taking a hit of his joint).
—So yah, Joe, so what you have to puzzle out is not whether the chimps smoke weed, but whether the chimps recognize the idea of father
qua
father-figure, in the proto-society going on uh in say the rainforest, where you're bound to find a lot of bloody bananas.
Beads of marijuana sweat trickling down Joe's shiny head.
—But Joe, uh, with regards to the latter question, I don't think I could answer that competently without at least several months of intense thought. It's a tough one to consider.
—You can say that again (looking over at Jamie with a grin). So, uh, you want to take a hit, Jordan?
—No, no, I better not. Weed is uh, weed is an instantiation of a plant, and plants...
—But plants are good for you, right?
—Well, some are; that is true.
—What about weed? Is that good for you?
—Well...
—Because that's the question on everyone's mind, right?
—Yes, and uh that's certainly a valid question. But, man, without unpacking the whole dominance hierarchy of flora and fauna in the habitat of cannabis plants, I don't think I could answer that competently.
—So you don't want to take a toke?
—Oh, what the hell. Give it here.
AHEUgh HUugh hugh
—Ahahaha, Jordan brother, you're a lightweight.
"Please turn Joe Rogan back into my fiancée," Jim (aka Jamie) pleaded.
"Zap."
"Fries," Michelle said.
"Fuck."
The phone rang. It was the guy from Motel 6 again.
"Hardwood, your credit card bounced."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the payment didn't go through. For the mattress you ruined."
"Oh, that. Do you just pop into existence any time I say the word 'fuck?'"
"Well, that uh depends on how you define 'existence,' and how you define 'fuck.'"
"Jordan? Is that you?"
"Ya, it is, and man, you bloody well better pay for that mattress or you're going to feel the instantiation of my foot unpacked up your ass, bucko."
"Fuck off." Jim slammed the phone down. He wasn't in the mood for this malarkey, not when his wife had been reduced to a Walmart shopper.
"So, there's a way to fix this," Wall said. "But you're not gonna like it."
"Ohhh no. Not another rando. Forget it. No way, no how. There's not a chance in hell I'm going through that again."
"Ranch dip," said Michelle.
"Where are my car keys?"
#
Jim drove down Sunset Blvd again, eyes darting around the sidewalks for new prey.
"Oh, wait, stop the car. I figured it out," said Wall.
