MEET AMERICA’S “MOST REPULSIVE MAN!”

AND HIS HOUSE IS EVEN WORSE!

(EDITOR’S NOTE: WWN is publishing this story because the world needs to know about it – although we vowed to Brick Rivers not to do so. We assure his fans that he’s on the mend after an encounter with very tiny sharp objects.)

It’s not often that WWN finds a breaking story before it’s shattered but, last week, a particularly reliable source of ours, and one of the top traders on eBay, let us know that one Milo Kenny, residing in Timid Pond, Maine, was going to be awarded the title of “The Most Repulsive Man In America” by not one but four publications!

According to our source, The Guinness Book of World Records, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Chronicles, The End-Times Gazette and Vogue Magazine had all honed in on Mr. Kenny as the most disgusting fellow in America and were about to alert him to that fact, making him an instant celebrity! It was just a matter of who got to Kenny first to seal the deal.

FINDING THE LEGEND

We contacted an ex-con friend in Maine to provide a getaway car outside Milo Kenny’s house, preferably a Corolla.

Using our proto-type Space Force Rocket Pack, WWN made it from Manhattan to Timid Pond, Maine in 9 minutes, causing some gastronomical problems that the sheer force of the wind easily masked. Upon landing, clothes now a size smaller, this reporter found himself in front of a quaint, two-story Tudor home.

From within the home came a stench that was sort of a “Best Hits Collection” of “odors that make you heave” with just a hint of Lysol tossed in. (Mmmmm. Laundry Scent!)

WWN knew it had found the home of Mr. Kenny. We also noted that everyone on the block wore HAZMAT suits. Many of the birds in the trees were coughing. At that point, we donned a second anti-virus mask because of the smell and moved forward towards the house, calling: “Mr. Kenny?”

“The Floor Was Moving!”

“Door’s open,” came a robotic voice. “C’mon in.”

Wading through a waterfall of cats, we made our way up the stairway. Before us, through an open door, was a room that every hoarder in the world would consider Heaven. There were waves upon waves of discarded fast-food containers, pizza boxes, newspapers, junk mail, bottles, underwear, and filing cabinets filled with sex toys obliterating the floor. Plus, the floor was moving. It was then WWN realized that we had to step up at least four feet to get to the current floor, strewn with trash. It was evident why Mr. Kenny was a prizewinner.

“You might want to use those skiing poles next to the doorbell. It helps you to keep yourself from going under the first layer,” Mr. Kenny called, sounding like a considerate Darth Vader.

In fact, once this reporter had scaled the floor, he found himself staring at a 350lb+, five foot two tall blob of a man sprawled on a couch (?) clad only in shorts and wearing a Darth Vader helmet that distorted his voice. Moving forward, this reporter lost his balance after jamming his ski pole into a section of floor that grabbed it and yanked it, snarling. Retrieving the pole sent this WWN scribe careening into the door leading to the cellar.

At that point, a loud growl exploded through the house and the cellar door began being kicked from behind with a series of ferocious thumps!

Mr. Kenny sighed and removed his Vader helmet, revealing the face of a balloon with stubble. “Bruno! It’s okay. It’s okay,” he called before singing “Rock-A-Bye-Baby”. He gestured I should join in. We sang and sang until the growling and pounding stopped, replaced by a snore that sounded like a leaf blower hitting gravel.

When Goats Have Seizures Watching ‘Wheel of Fortune

Mr. Kenny smiled. “That’s Bruno. He’s a brown bear hibernating in the basement. His family abandoned him. They were a group of traveling gypsies. They crashed in the basement along with Bruno and a goat, Sassy. It was nice. You look pale. Want some coffee? There’s some in the kitchen.”

This reporter wobbled towards the kitchen and spotted the long-cold coffee pot. “You mean the pot with the rats in it?”

Mr. Kenny. “The caffeine. They love it. There’s soda in the fridge. Just open the door slowly. The raccoons react to sudden movements.”

Returning to the living room, this scribe thought it best the interview was cut short. Mr. Kenny, however, picked up the tale of the gypsies. “Everything was going fine until, this one night, we were all watching ‘Wheel of Fortune,’ and Sassy, the goat, had some sort of seizure. I think it was Pat Sajak’s weird laugh that set her off. She spun like a top and it sounded like a bagpipe. She died with the TV still on. Anyhow, the family packed up and took Sassy to her ancestral home for burial; Bayonne, New Jersey.”

“And they left the bear?”

“Yup. It’s okay, though. On good days, he and Buzz have a great ol’ time.”

“Buzz?”

“The badger you hit with the pole. I got him after my accident. I was hired for construction by the government and we were sent faulty girders. Plastic! I took a bad fall but I landed on my feet. I used to be 6’2”. I’m a foot shorter, now, and when I walk I sound like a Fritos’ bag being crumpled.”

Enter the Slug-Man!

Praying for an end of the interview, this scribe stood and announced: “Well, Mr. Milo Kenny…”

The little big man blinked and chuckled. “I’m Mikey Kenny. You want my Dad.”

He turned his head and bellowed: “Daaa-aaad. It’s for you!”

The house began to sway and a low rumbling began to build. This reporter reached into his pocket for a third mask, expecting the worst. It soon came as a massive fart seemed to push the house’s walls outward and a rush of wind sent the living room debris airborne.

Looking upward, we saw this thing descending the stairs from the second floor. It was enormous, almost slug-like but with a human head! There was no bone structure at all!

“If you have a fourth mask,” Mikey said, “now’s the time to put it on. This is the part when he burps.”

This reporter did as he was told and the Slug-man let forth with a colossal burp. What emerged from the mouth and into the air looked like a tidal wave of, um, nasty bits. Using scientific language, it was ‘icky.’

We rushed out of the house in record time, snatching up the rocket pack and making it to our Corolla before the wave of nasty bits and hurricane winds could burst from the Kenny place. As we left, a long stretch-limo pulled up and a leather-clad, sexy and heavily Botoxed woman emerged, turning towards the house. It was the editor of The End-Times Gazette! She was hit by the first burp-blast. Her Botoxed face melted, leaving her looking like the sexiest basset hound in America.

Things get weirder

The story really took a weird turn when everyone on the block who had kitchen salt or rock salt launched an attack on the Slug-man, lobbing salt and reducing it to a mammoth blob within minutes. Everyone who witnessed this vowed not to speak about it, so the town’s real estate prices wouldn’t plummet. Should anyone reveal the story? The citizens vowed to kill them using, quote, “very tiny sharp objects.”

To the Editor: The only reason I’m filing this story is to get re-imbursement for the rock salt stains on the Corolla as well as the embedded pizza shards on the hood and the ensuing welding needed. I trust your discretion on this.

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