You getting married? Are you gross and weird? How about I just take your whole stupid wedding cake, the whole thing, and dump it through a garbage disposal into this ice cream? Sound good?
Bon appetit, dipshits. It all winds up in the same place eventually: back in the ice cream.
Ahhhh, I'm feeling nostalgia for all the amazing cakes we used to make. Remember when I put 75 pounds of fucking fondant on top of a stale sheet cake and made it look vaguely like a church and then that giant eskimo woman spent 20 hours painting shingles on it only to have it fall over in the van?
Those were the days. I shot down five cakes over korea, you know, right? They had it coming. I don't even like cake. Or ice cream. Or myself.
Fuck it, you know what, just for you, I am going to take this cake that is 90% fondant draped over a fucking wooden box, tastes like total dog shit, but it looks like a Jeep and has headlights that turn on. I am going to pulverize it and drop that fucker into ice cream.
Mmmmmm. Jeep cake in ice cream with ripples or something. You think some Cake Boss is going to give you that? Imagine waking up from a thirty year coma and finding out there is a freezer full of this shit at every grocery store.
Now imagine some big eyed refugee coming ashore and being greeted with frosty cake-n-ice-cream pops, batter fried. Welcome to America, idiots.
That's how Duff does.
|Zack is the author of the new short story collection Wages: Future Tales of a Hired Gun, a blood-soaked satire of private military contracting. He is also the author of the genre-hopping novel Liminal States, soon to be available as an audiobook. You can find out more about Zack's latest projects and special offers on his Facebook page.|
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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