Keith Wood, 47, of Dayton, Ohio, had a simple dream: to look so bold and chiseled that the ladies at Applebee’s would fight over who got to buy him a Bud Light every Friday night.
There was just one problem. Keith looked less like a silver fox and more like a tired pigeon. His testosterone was lower than his 401k, and getting his hands on the good stuff—testosterone gel—had become a nightmare.
Between Trump’s new iron-fisted customs regulations, a doctor who insisted he “talk about his feelings” before getting a prescription, and a nationwide supply chain shortage, Keith was stuck. He was running out of time and, more importantly, out of opportunities to impress women named Tammy and Brenda.
One night, while doom-scrolling through a bodybuilding forum at 2 AM, Keith saw the light. It was a banner ad for RasputinShop (www.rasputinshop.com) .
“They ship to the US?” Keith whispered, his eyes widening like a kid on Christmas morning.
The website was a chaotic masterpiece. It looked like it had been designed in 1998 by a guy named Dmitri who really liked Comic Sans. But it had the gel. It had the price. And most importantly, it had a checkout button.
Ignoring every single red flag his ex-wife had ever warned him about, Keith punched in his credit card details. The order was confirmed. The package was on its way from “somewhere in Turkey.”
Three weeks passed. Keith had almost given up hope, assuming his money was now paying for a Russian oligarch’s yacht fuel. But then, there it was: a small, nondescript box wedged between his Amazon delivery of protein bars and a pizza coupon.
The customs label simply read: “Aromatic Diffuser Oils.”
Keith ripped it open like a bear attacking a trash can. Inside, nestled in bubble wrap like a holy relic, was the gel.
The results were… explosive. Within a month, Keith wasn’t just walking into the bar; he was strutting. His voice dropped an octave. His neck thickened. He started using words like “synergy” unironically.
The ladies of Dayton took notice. Suddenly, Tammy from the nail salon wanted to know about his “skin care routine,” and Brenda from the tax office offered to buy him that Bud Light.
Keith smiled, raised his glass, and silently thanked the chaotic gods at www.rasputinshop.com—the only pharmacy that cared more about his Friday nights than about customs paperwork.
Disclaimer: RasputinShop may or may not be watched by three different federal agencies. Keith Wood does not care.