2nd place in Derby #114: Cooking, with 881 votes!
I’d had it with that corpulent little creep. Always looking over my shoulder, making “helpful” suggestions in the kitchen like I don’t know how to slice up a tube of frozen cookie dough.
“Let me help!” he’d squeak. Sure, you patronizing pudge-ball, because god forbid you let me prepare a meal unsupervised. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst was his disgusting tickling fetish. “Give me one in the belly! Come on, do it! Come on, it’s soft! I like it!”
I guess I snapped. It was easy to get my hands on him. I just approached like I was going to indulge his tickle-kink, and at the last second I seized him in one hand, slammed him flat on his back on a no-stick cookie sheet and thrust him into the oven.
The whole house filled with the sweet scent of his baking flesh, and I breathed it in deeply. Ooh, it was nice. I poured myself a Campari, thought of that final, startled expression that had flashed across his face, and laughed.
Then, in a few short minutes, when he was done, I tore him into hunks and tossed him onto the lawn for the birds. They really seemed to go for him. So I guess he was good for something after all.
Wear this shirt: as a warning to anyone who tries to get in your way while you’re fixing a meal. THIS MEANS YOU, HAMBURGER HELPER.
Don’t wear this shirt: as a way of announcing you’ve “got one in the oven.”
This shirt tells the world: “Who’s giggling now, fatso?”
We call this color: Royal Blue-hooo!
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