Savage, Bruh

The immigrant-polished surface of my mahogany desk reflects an image of success: a world-renowned psychologist with $700 spectacles and a you-can-tell-me sport coat. It wasn't always this way. Just three years ago, I was a struggling young professional, a practicing pragmatist drowning in the muck of convoluted human emotion. This was before the Department of Communication devoured the word salad called the English language and implemented a universal verbal system comprised of the 27 necessary utterings.

I have since signed a book deal, embarked on a world speaking tour, and been given a weekly one-hour program on network television. My net worth is $84 million. My first appointment today is with a Hollywood actress who very recently had a miscarriage. She arrives for her session.

"FML!" she weeps.

I place a hand on her shoulder. "SMH," I sympathize.

"Savage," she laments. "Savage."

I exhale, softly tell her: "Facepalm." Then I stare directly into her eyes and assure, "Lit, fam. Lit."

"Lulz." She wipes away a tear.

"Swag," I smile. She smiles back. The session is complete. She pays me $50,000. Worth every penny. "Swag," I call to my receptionist, strolling out the door. "Swag," I tell my driver, deciding it's such a beautiful day, why not walk home?

Two lovers are entangled on a park bench, lost in each other's being. "Bae," the man coos in the woman's ear.

The woman nuzzles his neck. "Bae," she swoons. She pecks him on the nose, the lips. They kiss passionately.

Such a sweet sight to see: two lovebirds chirping sweet poetry. I am so entranced by their romance that I bump shoulders with a passerby.

"Bruh!" the passerby grumbles, agitated. But then his eyes happen upon my face and he realizes who I am. He expresses his adulation for my contributions: "Fire, bruh!"

I am so flattered, so at a loss for any of the 27 words, that all I can manage is a perfect little smirk.

On the street corner a homeless man's soiled hat accepts donations. The man's talent: he beats the piss out of overturned pails as if they're a drum kit. A well-to-do woman sashays right up to me and below her breath she says, "Cringe." I make a smilish face and continue on my way. 

From my neighborhood: charcoal plumes of brimstone death smoke, vomiting from a nearby house. My house? I make a mad dash for home, malevolent thoughts firing like lasers across my brain synapses. My worst suspicions are confirmed when I arrive at the driveway. A fire rages like an angry sun, consuming my once-house, flames dancing in epileptic ecstasy, the stench of melted flesh wafting toward the heavens. My wife and young son: dead.

"OMG!" gasps a rubber-necking individual.

There is a terrible little man watching the fire with glee. His clothes are charred and his eyes are wet and glossy. Once he notices me, he bolts.

"Bruh!" I yell at the running man. But he's long gone.

At the police station, with my mind shattered, I approach the desk. How can I put into words such an atrocity? Voice quivering, I try: "Savage...lit fam...fire."

The officer looks up from his computer, face of stone. He clears his throat and responds, "YOLO."