Home Alone

One morning, little Jordan Coleman, a boy only eight years, one hundred twenty days, and seven hours old, awoke from a scary dream of talking trees to find that he was alone in his suburban home. A thorough inspection of each room yielded no evidence of a note, nor any other indication that his parents had left on an urgent and unanticipated errand, as had been his original conclusion. Furthermore, abandonment also appeared dubious, considering everything in and outside the house (including his parents’ clothes, suitcases, and car) was exactly as it had been the previous evening.

Jordan stepped out onto the front lawn, clad only in the briefs he had slept in the night before.

\"Hellooo?\" he called out into the empty street. He tried again, a bit little louder, more emphatically – \"Hell-ooooo?!\" He received no answer, even from the neighbors’ dog, who was notorious for going into barking frenzies over considerably less.

It was obvious to Jordan what had happened – while sleeping, he had somehow accidentally shifted into an alternate reality in which all animal life but he had suddenly ceased to exist.

Jordan went back inside and turned the television to one of many blocked adult entertainment channels. Without hesitation, he entered his parents’ four-digit password and hit ‘enter’, magically conjuring up a juicy double-penetration shot, while, incidentally, two electric guitars wailed on the movie’s soundtrack. Finding himself suddenly famished, he decided to make himself some toast, alternating his attention between the moist, fleshy images flickering on the screen and the sticky task of spreading jam. Toast in hand, Jordan kept his eyes glued to the TV, as he marched a lethargically absent goose-step back and forth across the linoleum floor, sporadically munching his breakfast.

In bizarre twist of fate, the porno’s money-shot synched up perfectly with Jordan’s last bite of toast in climactic synchronicity.