The situation was becoming quite grim. The Writer’s Workshop was trapped in the Bolean Nationality classroom.
Naturally everybody was blaming the Botendaddy. It was their belief that his erotic behavior had caused this volatile situation.
All of the student groups were very angry that despite the Botendaddy having made love to virtually every single member of the Writers’ Workshop, he had failed to also make love to a diverse swath of the membership of each revolutionary student organization.
Naturally, this led to these allied groups’ occupation of the president’s office and the vice-assistant-sub-provost-auxiliary-assistant to the super-numerary of the Harrison Bergeron Memorial extreme diversity office under Title MDCCLXXVI of the US Code.
The Boleans were using alien mind-power to hold the door against the seething, righteous mob of Social Justice Champions.
“This is all Botendaddy’s fault. We should send him out to be slaughtered, so that we, the ancient and honorable Writer’s Workshop, may live.” Said the Professor, soliloquating like the wise Roman Cicero (Pronounced ‘Kee-Ka-Rho’).
“He refused to make love to them. They have a right to his love! Ah the smell of it!” Cried Ramon, standing and waving his gaucho hat dramatically.
“Listen everybody! The 7:59 mile yesterday was not a fluke! I could do it all along! I just needed my Ruby Sippers! Do ya know me Bert? Do ya know me?” I shouted.
“We have demands!” Shouted a member of LaGraza through the door. The shouter conversed with Ramon in agitated Spanish.
“She is demanding your magnificent phallo-centricity! Yon Botendaddy! You must make love to this Bolivian Beauty! This icky girl, Yuck I say! girls are icky-poo-poo!” Translated Ramon.
Next Arabic was shrieked through the door. Fortunately, the Botendaddy speaks Arabic. They were demanding that I join them for Barma and a Finjaan of Qahiwa (El Coffee) and admit my man-on-man sexual war crimes, in lurid detail.
BLAM was next, Devon, a black man, spoke to them. “Sellout! Uncle Tim! Give up the sexy devil Botendaddy!” They cried.
“HUH?” Said Devon. “WTF are you talking about? And it’s Tom you morons!”
Then the Asian Nationalist Sand Pebbles Society began to chant: “Send Holman down! Send Holman down!”
“Wrong f&$king movie!” Hiroyuki shouted through the door.
The LGBTQ was next. “Park Ranger! We know you’re in there! Give us the Botendaddy! He must be in full drag!”
“What about partial drag?” Shouted the Park Ranger through the oaken door.
“Partial drag is creepy like Eddy Izard! Make Botendaddy beautiful!” They yelled.
“Impossible!” Shouted the Swole’ Bro’ and Guyasuta simultaneously.
The pounding against the door grew louder. “Hodor! Hodor!” Shouted the Librarian.
“Wait… I have a plan. Let me call the No-one Cares Lady and the Stalker.”
She got on the phone and started talking fast. Soon the Stalker, Weird Foreign Doctor Chick, PMWC and the Chasey Lady appeared in the great throne room with carton after carton of fresh doughnuts (pronounced ‘donuts’). The Social Justice Champions, White Walkers and Woolly Mammoths abandoned the door and ran to the smell of the donuts. We were safe for now.
The girls came in, proud of their great rescue.
“94n9 84N9 the Botendaddy? The PMWC suggested.
Peace be the Botendaddy