The title has no relevance to the story. Here's my pathetic attempt at crack.

"God, Stan!" Kyle bitched, his jewfro jiggling rather comically in the wind. "All you ever do is talk about Wendy! Dude, do you have any idea how fucking inconsiderate it is, doing that?!"

Stan didn't know.

"It's like, I'm your super best friend, you know? Wendy gets gifts from you; she gets your time; you buy her tampons when she needs them." Kyle continued to wail, emphasizing random words for no apparent reason. "Well, why not me, huh? Why not, Stan?!"

"I...dude, she's my girlfriend, and, well, you don't need tampons, so—" Stan began to explain slowly, but couldn't, on account of—

"STFU, Stan! Find a new best friend! I'm leaving!" the redhead screeched. Kyle continued to yell and nag even though he said he was leaving, and Stan just sort of tuned in and out of the conversation. His thoughts alternated between how Kyle bitched a lot more than Wendy, who admittedly bitched a lot, and Nabisco's Peanut Butter Bites. Because, really, is there a snack that could possibly top Nabisco Peanut Butter Bites? Well...maybe Fig Newtons, but those are fucking classic, and nothing could ever top Fig Newtons...no, never...

"—and she knows nothing about you!"

Guitar Hero. Yeah. That tops Fig Newtons.

"...she's just a stupid slag!"

Stan was finally jolted out of his thoughts at the word 'slag', realizing that he should probably defend his girlfriend even though she wasn't there to see it.

Kyle was wrong. Stan was very considerate.

"Dude," he began, trying to avoid looking at Kyle's rageface. "Me and Wendy haven't even had sex yet, so she's not a slag. Quit being such a douche bag."

Kyle made an incredulous sound, which was really grating on Stan's nerves. He just wanted to tell Kyle to shut the fuck up. But...

"Slag?" he made a face, chuckling. "That's so British, dude."

"Goddamn it, Stan! You're missing the point! I'm pouring my heart out to you, and you're just..."

Stan started tuning Kyle out again, instinctively picking up on the fact that his friend was only just starting an endless rant about God knows what. Probably something having to do with tampons and slagginess and Cartman and Jews. Whatever...

The darker haired boy gazed out at the calm waters of Stark Pond and found himself wishing Wendy was here with him rather than Kyle, because she wasn't so much of an annoying fuck. Really, that's why he loved her. Or liked her. Or tolerated her. Sort of.

But...wait.

"Why are we even at Stark's Pond?" Stan thought out loud. There really was no point to being here, right?

It seemed that Kyle had finally stopped talking for a few seconds. He stared at Stan like he was the biggest dumbass in the universe, and Stan stared at Kyle like he was the biggest bitch in the universe.

And both were right.

"Omigawd, Stan." the redhead gasped. "You really don't know?"

"Would I have fucking asked if I fucking did?" Stan seethed, obviously getting very angry by the blatant use of his favorite word.

"I guess not." Kyle admitted. He seemed to be over his earlier bitchfest, which Stan was more than grateful for. "We're at Stark's Pond because we needed to have a heart-to-heart, silly."

Stan really didn't care to be called that.

"And, you know, it's quiet and peaceful here." his friend continued, sounding suspiciously happy. "Romantic..."

Stan was now trying to avoid looking at Kyle's gayface, but it was kind of hard because the other boy was clearly invading his personal space and he couldn't really look anywhere but at Kyle.

"Mm, your eyes are like two big, blue oceany orbs of...ocean." Kyle murmured, trying and failing to sound romantic. "And your hair is like, ebony...um, silk."

Stan scowled, obviously not seduced. Alas, Kyle was not discouraged.

"And your lips are so smooth, like two delicate flower petals." Stan failed to see how his lips had any resemblance to that. "I bet they would look really good wrapped around my—"

"Dude!" Stan wailed, flapping his arms in a Kyle-induced frenzy. "Fucking quit it! No! I'm not—"

But Kyle was already dry-humping his friend, obviously not even close to heeding to Stan's obvious discomfort.

"No homo!" Stan protested loudly, even though he was developing a raging boner. "No homo! No homo!"

But it was too late. Kyle had already jizzed in his pants. He was feeling rather satisfied, but Stan was feeling very violated.

Maybe this is what depression feels like, he lamented inwardly. My life is over—My innocence; virtue...gone—The end of my days.

It was a very beautiful haiku. Hopefully the number of syllables were right.

"D-Don't touch me!" Stan whimpered as Kyle made a grab for his junk. He wasn't ready to make up yet. He had to go home, stare at himself in the mirror for a few minutes before punching the glass and breaking it for no real reason, cut his wrists with the glass shards, and write a suicide note confessing his eternal love for Kyle even though everything that just happened suggested otherwise.

Because waking up in the hospital after a failed suicide attempt with crusted over lacerations is so beautifully dark. And it would be essential for more smut to ensue.

Stan stumbled home in a date rape psychosis-induced daze, ignoring the sound of Kyle calling him post-coital terms of endearment—'honey' and 'love biscuit.' It was all too much. Stan was not a love biscuit. The darkness was closing in on his soul and he was having a crisis of sexual identity. Maybe Kenny could give him a blowjob as consolation.

Yes. That always helps.

I fail. But it got rid of some free time I had (and wasted yours).

Could I have gotten away with a T rating?