What would Patrick Bateman do?

I have a new game. It's called, "What would Patrick Bateman do?" Patrick Bateman is, of course, the star of the greatest movie and book ever, "American Psycho". I'm going to walk around and whenever my reaction is called for I will think, "What would Patrick Bateman do?" and respond accordingly. Still unclear? Here's an example:

My girlfriend's mom's cat had kittens. I'm over at the house playing with them, as they are so cute and cuddly, and she asks me what I think of them. I think, what would Patrick Bateman do? So I take one of the kittens and feed it to an ATM machine. . . .The next day I had to go to the grocery store. The high school girl cashier asks me, "Paper or Plastic?" I tell her, "You're a fucking ugly bitch. I want to stab you death, and then play around with your blood." Get it? Isn't this game awesome? My assistant comes into my office with some invoices. She asks, "Do you want to go over these before I enter them?" I. Just. Say. "No". . .and as she's leaving I tell her, "Kelly, don't ever wear that outfit again." She stops.

"Umm, what? I didn't hear you."

"I said, 'Do not wear that outfit again'. Wear a dress. A skirt or something. You're prettier than that. And high heels, I like high heels."

After work, I hit the gym. I personally designed my workout to integrate free weights with isometric machines. Free weights are important because they allow me to utilize my core muscles for stability. The machines isolate the movements, allowing me to get a more fuller and all-over pump. Relieving stress from the workout relaxes me and I hit the smoothie shop. My abs are tight and my traps are like steel. I notice the little hardbody named Christie working the front desk is checking me out. I tell her she looks like the model on the new Dior campaign and she laughs. We arrange to meet at the Lime for drinks, followed by dinner at Berns. I know the maitre d' and I sometimes buy cocaine from one of the sommeliers. After dinner, we go back to my apartment on the 19th floor at 345 Bayshore Avenue (nice). Upstairs, she tells me what a nice view of Tampa Bay I have. I know. It's none of your business, but it certainly wasn't cheap. I ask her if she takes American Express. I have a black one. She tells me I'm funny and asks if she can use the bathroom. What would Patrick Bateman do? I tell her yes and call an escort service, asking very specifically for a blonde. I put on a CD by Phil Collins. The song Sussudio comes on. Great, great song, a personal favorite. Thirty minutes later there's a knock at the door. A girl with dirty blonde enters my apartment. "Not quite blonde, are you?" I tell her. "More like a dirty-blonde. I'm going to call you Sabrina. You will respond only to Sabrina." I pour two glasses of wine mixed with some Roofies. I tell Sabrina to draw a bath so she and Christie can wash their vaginas. After I'm positive their cunts are clean, I order them to the bedroom. Christie crawls onto my bed and Sabrina starts to dance. "Don't just stare at it Sabrina, eat it!" I put on Huey Lewis and the News and pop a VHS tape into my Sony camcorder and focus it on my king size bed. Sabrina is licking Christie's vagina while Christie is on all fours, sucking my cock. I hit a double bicep pose and slide my cock into Christie's vagina. As I pump her from behind I scream, "You fucking bitch! You whore face trash bitch!" I headbutt Christie in the back of the head and grab a butcher knife from my Ethan Allen bedside night table. Naked and wearing white Reebok high tops, I chase Sabrina to my front door and stab her 37 times. I laugh hysterically while I fuck the holes I made in her with the knife. Remembering Christie, I run to the bedroom where she's hiding under the bed. Ignoring her screams, I tie her up and bite off her nipples. I giggle uncontrollably and begin to fuck her face. After four orgasms I am still aroused, so I take a rat I've been starving and let him burrow for the cheese I've placed up Sabrina's vagina. As he claws his way deeper into her cunt, I change the CD to Whitney Houston because Huey's a little too black-sounding for me. I pour a J&B straight up on the rocks and sit out on my balcony. I stare at the reflection of the moon on the water and a calm washes over me in an awesome wave. I sip my drink and think,"What an excellent game . . ."