As promised, here are two more examples of my "Worse Case Scenario" game. If you have no idea what I'm talking about you should click here (You jackass).

So strap yourself in... because these next few are pretty... goddamn nasty. I saved the worst for last. Hehehehe...

Scenario: Your prom date has dumped you at the last minute for her ex-boyfriend….

You poor, poor creature… left home alone, nothing to do. In a single act of defiance, you decide to eat the corsage. Fuck it, it's your money, right? You pop that thing in your mouth, chew a few times, and then swallow it.

You, of course, neglect to remove the pin from it first though.

Realizing what you've done, you begin to freak out. You're not exactly sure how badly your system will be fucked up, but you don't want to find out. You decide that the only thing to do is to evacuate the contents of your stomach pronto.

You run to the bathroom and stick two fingers down your throat, trying to force yourself to vomit. But it won't do the trick. Your friends always laughed at your lack of a gag reflex, making jokes and assumptions about happened to when you used to go to summer camp as a little boy. Of course, if they knew the real truth, they wouldn't be laughing.

Childhood traumas aside, you look around for something to stick down your throat even further. You figure that all you need is further encouragement. That’s when your eyes come upon the toilet plunger.... and its long handle. You grab it, not even thinking about cleaning the damn thing off first, and force it down your throat slowly.

Now let's just pause here for a second, and talk about the nature of wood...

Wood is a porous material. For those of you who flunked 8th grade English, porous means that it contains pores. One of the main activities a pore has is sucking in moisture. When there is no more moisture to suck in, it will suck in soft materials. If you've ever tried to peel dried toilet paper off of a plunger handle, you'll know what I mean.

Unfortunately, in this case, when the handle wood runs out of moisture, the softest material to suck in is, of course, the lining of your esophagus. Before you figure this all out yourself, however, you can feel the wood starting to cling onto the lining of your esophagus. The pores are trying to suck it into the wood.

Freaking out, you pull hard on the handle, trying to yank it out. The first tug hurts like fucking hell, your esophagus not giving much. The pain reminds you of summer camp again, for some odd reason. After a few more tugs, you become accustomed to the pain, so you begin to tug harder. Slowly, you work your way up, tugging harder, getting used to the pain, then tugging even harder. All the while, it feels like somebody is trying to turn your throat inside out. The handle budges a little, and something happens. You hit some small button in your throat or something, and what it triggers is most... unpleasant.... You vomit all over your hands.

Not to mention the front of your shirt, the toilet, the wall behind the toilet, and basically everything else within a three-foot radius.

Encouraged though, because vomit means more moisture, you tug as hard as you can, ripping the toilet plunger handle from your throat. Unfortunately, you take a little bit of the lining of your esophagus with it. A searing pain shoots through your neck and head, and you double over. By doing so, the pin in your stomach pierces the wall of your stomach.

You can't move. You're frozen with pain. Your body is twitching. You can feel the acids from your stomach leaking into the rest of your body. You could probably crawl to the phone and dial 911, but it would do any good, because your throat is ruined.

So while you lay there, feeling your insides melting, just think about this: Was the act of contrition that important? Did you have to make a statement? What's so wrong with just accepting defeat and then locking yourself in the room and masturbating to cable porn?

And as you take your last few gasping breaths, and the lights dim around you.... remember this last thought: Right now, your ex-date is getting nailed in the back of a Camarro. You sure showed her.

I’m sure that story will change any of your minds before you shove the wooden handle of a plunger down your throat. I just wish somebody had told me first before I did it. People say I sound like I smoke fourteen packs a day. I just dangle my esophageal lining in front of their face and rasp out, “Beware of the plunger! Bewaaaaarrrreeee!!!” And then they call the cops.

Now this next story… Well…. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to apologize to whoever I offend with this story. When this scenario was given to me I thought, “Man… I could probably make that funny, but I’m going to hell in the process.” And I am going to hell. I’d just like to submit this story to anybody who thinks otherwise. Oh, and for those of you going, “You can’t offend me, Steve.” Just keep that in mind… Because I know this is going to offend somebody.

Scenario: You have to identify the bodies of your wife and son….

Watching TV, you see it happen. A car that looks like your wife’s is wrapped around the guard-rail on the interstate. A paramedic is pulling a body out of the crumpled mess that looks like your son. The phone rings and there’s a knock at the front door. You ignore the phone and answer the door. Two policemen stare at you with morose expressions on their face. They tell you the news, but you just nod. You don’t cry, you just nod. Maybe if you hadn’t seen it happen on the evening news first, you would’ve cried.

After a long car ride, you finally make it to the morgue. They take you through some long, winding corridors before reaching the storage room where the remains of your loved one's are being held. They leave you with the mortician’s assistant. He walks you towards two gurneys, each with a body covered with a sheet. Only glancing at it, you can tell which one is holding your son, and which one is holding your wife.

Thankfully, the assistant takes you to the one with your wife on it first... He pulls the sheet back a little. Fighting back tears, you nod, saying that it is, in fact, your wife. You stare at her horribly mutilated face, thinking that she deserved so much better. It’s thankful, because you’re not sure how you could handle having to see your son first. You love your wife to death (Probably a poor choice of words), but… Your son. Eleven years old. Still so young and innocent.

The assistant then takes you over to the other gurney, where your son is. He pulls the sheet back, and the sob that escapes from your mouth echoes through the room. It is your son. And he is gone forever. You study him for a moment, marveling at how untouched he actually looks, especially compared to your wife.

That's when you notice a small mark near the crook where his shoulders and neck meet.

You lean in closer to scrutinize it a little, and then gasp, stumbling backwards, knocking over a tray of instruments. Pointing at your son, shocked, you start speaking quickly, the words running over each other.

“'Whatthefuckisthat?” The assistant looks at you questioningly.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Still pointing, you say it again, slowing down the words. 'What... the fuck... is that?'

The man smiles at you.

“Oh... that's a new feature we've added. You see... Whenever a person has to come identify a body, it's always so depressing and morose, and we're trying to change that image.” The assistant walks over and tilts your son's neck a little, exposing what is a little button.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Press it.”

Cautiously you walk forward, trading glances between your son's face, the button on his neck, and the mortician’s assistant holding his head to the side. The assistant nods a little, encouraging. You reach out, and hesitantly, you press the button.

“I love you!”

These words suddenly spring from a small speaker located in the back of your son's skull. The voice, while not your son’s, is surprisingly close. You jump backwards, completely taken aback.

“What the fuck was that?" It seems to be your favorite phrase of the day. The assistant grins.

“We like to call it our ‘Friendly Reminders’ series. It's a new thing we're trying to do to help ease the pain of losing a loved one. Go ahead, press the button again.”

You step forward, pressing the button again, and suddenly: “You're the bestest... daddy... in the whole wide world!”

You just stare at your son's corpse, dumbfounded. The assistant walks behind you, clapping his hand against your shoulder. “He's got thirty-nine phrases built into him, so you'll rarely hear the same one twice.”

You slowly look at the assistant, not sure what to say. “I know it'll take some time to adjust to, but trust me... When you have your funeral, people are really going to appreciate this. Watch…” The assistant reaches forward, pressing the button. There's a small whir followed by:

“Don't cry for me. I'm in a better place. With Jesus!”

You start shaking your head. The assistant turns you towards your wife's corpse. “And we understand especially how hard it is losing your partner. That's we've set up a conjugal visitation program.”

Your jaw just drops. Afraid to ask, you just stare at the man. “You see, we're more liberal than your normal stuffy morgue. We understand that there's usually only one way to properly say goodbye.” He reaches down, pressing the button that is protruding from her neck.

“You're still the only man from me,” comes in a mechanical-sounding voice. You just stand there, staring at the button on her neck, wondering how you could've missed that before. The assistant pulls the sheet down even further.

“There's even a special built-in device if you need that added little jolt.”

He pushes a slightly larger, blue button that is between her breasts. Suddenly, your wife's hips begin jerking violently up and down. You remark on how she was never this active in bed before she died, and then quickly scorn yourself for saying something like that.

The assistant presses the button, shutting her off.

“I know it seems strange, although most guys don't seem to have a problem with them just laying, motionless. Especially the one's who have been married for more than five years.”

The assistant walks over to the door, and draws the blinds, so nobody can see in the room. With a resigned composure, you start to undo your pants and crawl onto the gurney. The assistant smiles nods.

“I'll give you two some privacy.”

He walks out of the room. And as you mount your cold, lifeless wife, you press the button on her neck. There's a small whir, and then she speaks to you.

“You're so big! I can barely fit it all in!”

And as you start humping her, your skin flapping against cold flesh, trying not to look at her horribly mutilated face, you start to cry.

Because it's the most beautiful thing she's ever said to you before.

I think I’m just going to leave it at that. I’ll see you all next time. And remember… send me in any ideas you may have for “Worse Case Scenario.” And don’t worry if you think the idea may be too offensive…. Because as you can see… I have no taste whatsoever. Goodnight!