Hello there my
special little darlings. I am writing this after a solid day of ranting and raving about the state of Australian political
and social climate. If you look anywhere else with your eyes, you will find
people much smarter than me writing smart and important and serious words about
these things. On the other hand, you have me. I am here to (try) and write
dumb and silly and unimportant words for when your brains need a break. This
blog post is the first (if you like it) in a series of:
LESBIAN HORROR STORIES
Please enjoy/read/whatever
you want to do I’m not your mother or guardian.
The Kitchen
Ellen Degeneres sits
on her couch, staring intently at her television. Playing on it is her own
image. On Sundays she has Tony the DJ make a supercut of all the times she
danced on camera that week (including every CCTV camera she was caught on in
the entirety of Los Angeles). When she can’t sleep, she gets out of bed to
watch it for an hour or three. It soothes her. Suddenly, she hears a strange
noise coming from the kitchen. Unfamiliar to her ears, it makes her jump. She
stands up and faces the direction of the sound, breathing heavily. She knows it
isn’t her rescue dog or her other rescue dog or her rescue cat or her other
rescue cat or that other stray cat they are feeding or her rescue birds or her
rescue horse or her rescue Sophia Grace or Rosie (they are in the soundproof
cage in the studio basement at Burbank), or her rescue pony or rescue mule or
rescue sheep or rescue donkey or the rescue parrot she gave CPR to or the
monkey she rescued from the set of Friends (Jen Aniston smuggled it out in The
Rachel). Could it be Portia? No, since she had lunch with Gwyneth last week to get
health tips, she sleeps wrapped upside down in a fake womb hanging from the
ceiling. She wouldn’t be birthed out into a bath of warm coconut water until
the water broke at 5:45am.
The noise
continued. It was a thick gurgling, a steady bubbling, perhaps similar to the
sound of a person struggling to breathe or Barney Frank doing anything. The
hairs on her arms stood on end, waving back and forth, wearing a sensible vegan
vest – mimicking the dancing figure on the screen behind her. She took a few
steps towards the kitchen, with a feeling in the pit of her stomach that
something was very wrong. Although not as wrong as her romantic comedy Mr
Wrong, the wrongest thing that has ever happened. The noise seemed to be
getting louder now, each gurgle lasting a few seconds more each time. She
finally reached the kitchen and entered through the doorway, poking her tiny head
around inch by inch until she could see in. “If only These Walls Could Talk 2,” she thought to
herself. Even in times of crisis she can’t stop being hilarious. It is her burden.
She looked around the kitchen. There was nobody there. No wild animal, no open
door, no brick covered in ricin thrown through the window by Oprah and Gayle
like last time. Her heart was racing as the strange and scary noise shattered
the silence again and again.
She realised the
sound was coming from the usually empty space beside the Swisse Vitamin pantry.
She quickly turned and grabbed a knife from the sink and moved toward the SVP,
feeling her pulse beating hard in her wrist as she grasped the handle (her hand
grip incredibly strong due to Swisse Vitamins). She approached the pantry and
quietly flattened herself against the door. She paused, gathering her courage like Kristen Bell and a sloth gathering youtube hits.
Suddenly there was an extremely loud gurgle. She swung into action and let out
a Xena yell as she pounced around the corner, jabbing the knife out in both of
her shaky hands. There was nobody there! The noise was coming from the
six-hundred dollar waterfall fountain Portia had purchased that day for their
cats. Ellen had completely forgotten about it. She started to laugh
hysterically, gasping “I put myself
through hELLEN back because of this”, doubling over with laughter at her own
wit. As she stood she noticed tiny writing on the side of the fountain. She bent
back down and read it out loud, alone in the kitchen - “contains slip agents,
made from animal fat”.
She starts
screaming.
5 comments:
DEAD!!! LOL
I DIE!!! LOL
This is the best story I have ever read.
ALSO I JUST WENT AND READ A BUNCH OF YOUR BLOG POSTS NOW I'M IN LOVE WILL YOU PLEASE GAY MARRY ME?
Sorry that was rude, I meant
WILL YOU PLEASE SAME-SEX MARRY ME?
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