A booming chorus of footsteps echo off the walls as a million men and women run towards the exit of a hotel lobby. From a top-down view of the hotel lobby the crowd of gays, because of the vibrant hair color, can be described as the inside of a carton of birthday cake ice cream. The skin on each person is pale and washed out looking, in high contrast with the tacky neon rainbow dye saturating each of their persons hair. The sound of metal clinking together is heard as nose and ear rings bang against one another, each belonging to their own respective person attempting to escape. Beyond the flood of people at the door, near the elevators and staircases at the back of the lobby, can be seen five African men with guns. Their skin is that of tar and their heads are bald and shiny. They have tattoos, but they can barely be seen as melanin clashes with dark ink. One African yells the phrase “TEETOO TEETOO CHACHACHA” and all five men begin to fire. It’s a blood bath as faggot after faggot is mowed down, their bodies going limp and being trampled by other gays as the panic in the room comes to an all time high. No gays can get through the door now as the door frame has been blocked by a couple 500 pound gay women in shoplifted Walmart scooters, their grossly obese bodies mushed against the door frame and their fat rolls protruding on both sides. The scooter ladies desperately try to put the pedal to the metal on their scooters to no effect, and the other fags weep in borderline hopelessness as they continue to struggle towards pushing these fat geezers through the door. Eventually, there’s no one to push the scooter faggots through the door. Limp gay bodies lay on the floor in a bloody pile, their green reptilian blood caking the once immaculate floor of the hotel lobby. “Chiky chiky wow wow” one African says as they finish their attack. They all drop their guns and begin to boogie as “La Cucuracha” plays over the hotel speakers. And that’s how I met your mother.