I’ve keept my contributions short to respect the G rating. Sorry for the red ink, my word processor is finicky.

“Welcome back!” I say, beaming genially into the camera, “In case you're just tuning in, our guests tonight have more Hammy awards between the two of them than teeth. The power couple of ethnic music, Kay-Z, and Feyoncé Howles!”

I sit in a plush armchair on a stage surrounded by lights and cameras just out of sight. A stunning 8-foot bronze goddess with the practiced poise of a veteran runway model sits across from me, glowing under a halo of golden light. Lounging on her voluminous thighs is a strange creature that resembles an emaciated camel wearing open-toed sandals. There’s a lit cigar in his mouth and a cloud of smoke hanging around him. The studio audience cheers as I review my conversation points from a page in my lap.

Then I look up, adjust my tie, and say, “Feyoncè, let me just say that you look lovely tonight. Doesn’t she?”

More cheers come from the audience. Feyoncé’s face flushes, and she looks away. However, Kay does not seem pleased. He eyes me suspiciously, idly stroking the perfection beneath him.

“No, I mean it,” I continue obliviously, “You’ll probably force a few former saints to hit the confessionals if you smile any harder.”

Adorable dimples become more prominent, and the heavenly aura swells as Feyonce’s dazzling smile stretches more. Kay squirms uncomfortably, but she fails to notice in her embarrassment. She begins to blush, eliciting sympathetic groans from the onlookers, which intensifies the glow even further.

“Okay, that’s enough, King. Don’t make me have to get Mooklyn on you,” chuckles Kay.

He is sitting with his back straight now, eyes narrowing confidently, but in the brightened glare, tiny wisps can be seen rising from his skin. My eyes narrow as well, and we can lock eyes. Then my gaze drifts to the tittering fleshly globes behind his head. 

When Feyoncè sees me staring, I give her a wink, saying, “What’s wrong, Kay? Afraid people will see she’s outgrown you?”

Suddenly there’s a blinding flash and a weak thump on the ground. Gasps fill the room as the light clears, and when I regain my vision, I add to them. The dazzling diva now stands over a cowering Kay, towering at double her initial height with her arms. Her broad hips have broadened, and her once-modest dress now barely covers them. As the audience takes in her majesty, they are all compelled to kneel. I do as well, magnifying the situation even further. 

Then her head slams into the ceiling, and chunks of debris fall to the ground, jarring me from my trance.

“As you can see, folks, we’re experiencing some technical difficulties,” I say, looking back to the camera as enormous wiggling toes extend into view behind me, “Please stay tuned. I’m King Offjer, and thi-”

“I’m from Mooklyn! We don’t play that!” shouted Kay as he punched me in the jaw.