Chad Thundercock woke up that morning, rock hard and ready to roll. He didn’t have to throw the sheet and blanket off of himself, because his large, erect member made it like he was not even under his bed’s covers, at all. He awoke, hair unkempt in the stylish manner most apropos of the present fads, immediately prepared to face the day, revved up like Bruce Campbell after a line of coke, double shot of espresso, and six capsules of impotence pills.

Chad was a man’s man’s man’s man, but he belonged to no one man; he was all men, and unlike any other man, and the manliest specimen of human man-meat to ever have manned the helm of a man-body in order to pilot it through this man’s world that dared to ever try and stand in the way of this man. Nobody could stop him, because all wilted before his gaze, the pheromones that he exuded were like a swarm of angry gaseous hornets that caused the very air to vibrate with its masculine strength as they buzzed laser-focused toward any target of his desire.

Women melted before him like butter that had been left out overnight during a balmy summer’s night in a poorly insulated kitchen with little circulation. He spread them out like that same butter on a lightly toasted sesame bagel, that perfect partially crunchy outside with a chewy inside.

Chad Thundercock knew what he wanted and took it, and he took what he knew he wanted, and wanted to take the things that he took after he knew he wanted to know that he was going to just have to absolutely take it. Nobody stopped him, except for the fatal head-wound he incurred that morning when he sat up too quickly, impaling his penis straight through his own skull.

RIP Chad Thundercock. You were too much of a man for any man, except for the greatest man: yourself.