Vince was in the middle of a serious conniption fit. His nostrils were flaring as his breathing went ape shit, fluctuating wildly between long and short breaths. This made his face turn a shade of red somewhere between envy and wrath. As it were, he was the rare one out of six hundred people, who could actually make visible steam come out of his ears, so like a dog who licks itself, he did. His intense gaze, if isolated and taken out of context from the rest of his face, looked like he was choking. His fists were so tightly clenched, they turned ghost white. All the while, he stunk to high hell, for he had avoided showering for a third day.
Typically, Vince was considered by most of his peers, laid back and even-tempered. As we all know, there is always a breaking point, if not, the term would not exist. As is the case in most irrational outbursts, the television was the source.
His favorite show, “MTV’s Bachelorettes Sitting On Cream Pies In Slow Motion” was preempted by yet another mass shooting.