Kristen Stewart

Last month I was in Manhattan for no other reason than to see these huge rats I keep hearing about. Apparently they can grow up to like cat or raccoon sizes and I had to see it to believe it. So I'm at E 96th and Fifth wondering where all the tall buildings are when I see Kristen Stewart approaching with a cup of coffee and her ever-present vacant expression as she's probably constantly wondering how she can breath without having to think about it.

Now, I hate this drooling, zombie-like, slack-jawed douche-monster just as much as the next person, but I love my wife and for some reason she likes the Twilight movies. I'm considering a divorce on those grounds alone and I'm pretty sure I'd win.

Why does everyone hate my stupid face so much? (Inhale... exhale...)

Anyways, my wife would love to have her autograph and would probably twist my head off my neck with her glare alone if I came back empty handed. Summoning every last ounce of willpower, I approach Miss Stewart and give a small wave.

"Hey, Kristen Stewart, I was wondering if you could sign this for me. Err, for my wife. Dammit."

She took a moment to realize that I wasn't some screaming fan, crying my mascara into a mess and speaking only in vowels.

"Your wife? Sure, what's her name?" I tell her and begin to thank her and carry on, but she continues with "You don't want one for yourself?" I stare at her for about ten seconds straight, trying my best to keep calm.

"Are... Are you fucking high?" Whoops.

"Yeah, I am." Not too sure how to respond to that, I give her the double-bird, tell her to fuck off and walk to the East Meadow where I watch three cat sized rats chewing on what looked like a human hand.

I hate New York.