Local businesswoman Sarah Gillespie was taking a jog through Cornerstone Park Thursday afternoon, an activity during which she understandably expected not to be disturbed by the likes of any terrifying man. Yet, any yearning she had for a soothing jog under the trees disappeared in a cloud of smoke that smelled overwhelmingly of Aeropostale brand fragrances for men.
As she looked to her left, she noticed a man sporting a yellow Polo and a smart watch with a clock face that displays the time using vulgar language who had matched her pace. Gillespie noticed he was holding one of her earbuds in his sweaty palm. "I just wanted to make sure you can hear me when I say that men are just as discriminated against as women," his glossy lips shat. "I demand to be taken seriously." Gillespie turned away and told the offender that she wanted to be left alone. Because he knew how women worked like the vaginal guru he is, he could sense she was uncomfortable, so he made his best effort to soothe her. "Don't be afraid! Let's get to know each other," he began, his still glossed lips puckering tighter with every word like an anus post-fart. "My name is Clint, and you're Sarah. Now let's mingle!"
The man stepped ahead of Gillespie and placed one hand gingerly on her collarbone like a tired man loosely holds onto a subway strap for balance. "I think Brock Turner's punishments were a little severe, don't you think?" his face anus belched, raising so many red flags that anyone on the International Space Station who happened to glance at Earth in that moment in time may have truly believed North America had been drowned in a sea of blood. "It would be a shame to disagree with me with a body like that, Sarah! That's a huge turn-off," he informed her.
It was at the point where a stranger removed her earbud and began spewing non-consensual verbal communication at her when Gillespie began feeling unsafe, but he had reassured her that she had nothing to fear. Why then did she find herself unable to shake the urge that she was going to wake up naked and chained to a radiator in the basement of a house five states away? Surely it couldn't be this man's unwavering persistence to educate her on why she is wrong in being a woman in general. No, it couldn't be that. Perhaps it was because the handcuffs in the back pocket of his cargo shorts appeared as though they hadn't been cleaned in months. She dismissed this too.
She couldn't quite pinpoint the source of her paranoia -- it's not as though men have a track record for abusing disagreeable women who refuse to conform to their subhuman fixations and thrusting them into nightmare situations that will continuously be the cause of severe psychological torment for the entire rest of their lives. Now that would give any woman reason to be wary if a man approached her on a secluded path while she had no means of defense.
Gillespie offered the man 'The Silent Treatment' as he informed her of his well-educated thesis on the dichotomy of tits vs ass. This proved rather effective, as the man stormed off in a fit of rage, clamoring about how he was a nice guy who wrongfully fell victim to the friend-zone.
More on this story as it continues to develop.
