Please help support Trivago Guy by not only reading my Trivago Guy fan fiction, but loving it and sharing it with fellow fans. Perhaps we can show Trivago.com that we prefer the original TG to the admittedly attractive-as-hell female replacement. And never fear! Though Trivago Guy’s future as the official Trivago spokesperson seems anything but secure (thanks to the emergence of the aforementioned female replacement), I will nevertheless proceed with my epic story: “Trivago Guy Buys a Belt Online (Or Does He?)”
Trivago Guy Meme Fan Fiction Part 5: The Escort Cometh
Armed with a plastic Phantom Menace lightsaber that stopped turning on shortly after the DVD-release of said movie , Trivago Guy gritted his teeth and clasped his trembling hand over the doorknob. The metal rattled against the wood.
Whatever awaits on the other side of this door, he told himself, you must vanquish it with just one click. Strong and firm and decisive you must be. For the hour grows late and the wi-fi grows weak. You must keep command of your wits, old boy.
Inspired, he tightened his grip over the doorknob. The trembling stopped. Deep breath. Then, at last, he threw open the door to face his attacker.
The attacker was but a scantily clad, curvaceous middle-aged woman who smelled of murky marijuana exhaust and peach-scented skin lotion. She wore high heeled leather boots. Hot. She had a crooked band-aide on her knee. Her cleavage shined like the roaring Mississippi seen from 10,000 feet on a sunny day from a single-engine Cestna aircraft. Her full lips glowed cherry red in the hallway’s low flickery lighting. She wore Avatar-blue leggings that gave her a sort of exotic, alien mystique.
Clearly, she was a Lady of the Night, come from the third ring of siren hell to ruin Trivago Guy’s plans to buy a belt online once and for all!
What brought her hither? To what end had she been pounding on Trivago Guy’s door during the previous chapter of our story? And why do various travel websites give you different prices for the same room? All good questions.
Trivago’s Guy’s face flushed. His heart began to beat at a not-ideal rate. Whoever this she-devil is, he warned himself, you must not succumb to her feminine wiles or else you’ll—
She thrust her pelvis at him. It was a pretty difficult movement to discern with the naked eye, but I’m telling you it happened.
And it was enough. Much of the blood that kept Trivago Guy’s brain operating at max efficiency suddenly diverted to his nether regions in a sudden, mad deluge. The water-pressure involved were something akin to those governing the physics of a garden hose at full blast being used to inflate one of those tubular water balloons used at birthday parties to make poodles and such. A massive head/crotch blood reversal. Trivago Guy really liked the ladies, what else do you want me to say? But don’t laugh. Shortly after the events of our story, Trivago Guy would be diagnosed with a little known medical condition known in some circles as hurried boner (HB) and in others as shotgun penile engorgement. But hey, that’s just fancy medical talk for: he really liked the ladies. Anyway, the resultant dip in cognitive functioning he experienced earlier in this paragraph was severe. It was like when you stand up from your chair too fast and you no longer know where you are.
Trivago Guy’s knees turned to rubber. He wobbled. He flailed. And yes, his belt-buying aspirations took a smiling swan-dive off the face of the Earth. Interestingly, for the moment he no longer needed a belt to help keep his pants up. They were staying up all by themselves.
“What’s wrong with you, Mister? Didn’t you call for an escort?”
The only reason Trivago Guy didn’t collapse entirely was because his trusty lightsaber was presently functioning as a sort of kickstand. But then the pube-crusted red blade finally collapsed under the great force of Trivago Guy’s 172-pound bulk. Candy Cigarettes, for that was her name, swooped in and caught him. Her vein-drawn silicone breasts pressed firmly into his chest of lean muscle. Trivago Guy could feel her heart beat. She was very healthy. She was strong. She was dangerously fertile. You could tell by the invisible pheromones she vapored through the whelping pores of her overtanned skin. You could almost feel the potential baby feet riverdancing against her belly. Her Charlize Theron-endorsed perfume commandeered Trivago Guy’s sinuses.
“It’s okay,” Candy Cigarettes said in a soothing, surprisingly maternal kind of voice. “I think I know what’s going on here. You got HB. Nothing to be ashamed of. Candy Cigarettes knows just how to handle this.”
Trivago Guy, stupefied, flopped his head into the warm, sweaty, perfumey place between her neck and shoulder. A neck-vein throbbed against his left nostril. He couldn’t talk. His brain still hadn’t recovered from the rapid blood loss. He was paralyzed from the crotch up. Yet he was still fully aware of the situation. He knew that his belt-buying mission was in the midst of a true existential crisis.
Candy Cigarettes carried him a few more steps into the dark apartment, then reached behind her to close the door. Out in the hallway a neatly mustached Mexican-American mailman walked by with his big bag of mail. He was listening to headphones. He caught sight of the situation and seemed to understand exactly what had transpired, right down to the physiological response that had stripped Trivago Guy of his mental faculties. Perhaps he, too, suffered from HB.
“Help,” whispered Trivago Guy, his eyes pink and wet and so very vulnerable. But he didn’t really mean it. And the mailman seemed to know this. And then Candy Cigarettes closed the door and carried Trivago Guy into the dark apartment and promptly set course for the sagging inflatable mattress…
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Check out the Rolling Stone article that gave birth to my Trivago Guy fan fiction. “What’s the deal with the Trivago Guy?”
Catch up on Trivago Guy’s adventure: