MY KITCHEN – INT – MIDDAY
A smoke alarm blares in the background. A devastatingly handsome young man possessing genius-level intelligence and a penis the envy of porn actors worldwide (it’s my story :p) races to pull a tray of freshly-baked (if not slightly darkened) cookies from a smoking oven. Before the cookies reach the counter however, trouble strikes.
OVEN MITT, fed up with his lowly status and lack of appreciation begins loosen his grip on smoldering pan. The tray full of cookies starts to slip.
OVEN MITT: At long last, my days of involuntary agony and servitude to satisfy the paltry hunger cravings of the tyrannical oppressor are at an end! My plot to destroy your precious cookies is nearly COMPLETE! None can stop me now! Bwahahahaaaa!!
STOMACH: A betrayal! I shall not allow it! Quickly, Other Hand! To Arms!
OTHER HAND: On my way, sir! C’mon Arm!
ARM: Whatever.
TASTE BUDS: Aw, yeah! Let’s rock this bitch!
COOKIES (in unison): Aaaaaaahhhhh! Saaavvvveeee uuuuussssss!!
BRAIN: Zzzzzzzz…
In an instant, Other Hand, aided by the ever-supportive Arm, dashes towards the scene for a valiant but daring rescue attempt.
STOMACH: Other Hand, report!
OTHER HAND: Nearly there, sir. Cookies precariously sliding towards edge of tray. Attempting culinary readjustment maneuver in three, two…
BRAIN: Zzzzz… snort (smacks lips, rolls over) zzzzzz…
OTHER HAND: ONE!
TASTE BUDS: Hells yeah, boy! Do that shit! GO AMERICAAAAAAAA!!!
BRAIN (sleepily): Huh, wha-? yawn. Hey guys, what’s all the racket? Can’t a guy get a quick siest- What th- WHATAREYOUDOING?!?! ABORT! ABORT! CODE RED!! MAYDAY!!
OVEN MITT: Too slow, fool. Say goodbye to your precious Cookies.
Reaching his destination, Other Hand, fully exposed, begins perform what he believes will be a flawless readjustment. Things quickly get out of… ahem… hand.
NERVE ENDINGS: Um, hmm… well, this is certainly interesting. Better notify someone. Uh, Nerve Endings to Pain Receptors, be advised. Increased activity down here at Other Hand. Details en route.
PAIN RECEPTORS: Heat exceeding tolerable levels. Damage is imminent. Commencing activation.
BRAIN: Other Hand, get out of there, NOW!
OTHER HAND: HOLYMOTHEROFGODDDDD!!! I’M HIT!! IT BURRRNNNSS! IT BURRRRRRRRNNNNNNSSSSS!!!
Other Hand, badly damaged and in full retreat, makes a mad dash for Kitchen Sink. Unabated, the tray and Cookies come crashing to the ground.
OVEN MITT: Victory is MINE!
COOKIES: Daaaammmmnnn yoooooouuuuuuuuaaaaaahhhhh (gurgle)…
BRAIN: Damn you, Stomach! This is YOUR fault! Your arrogance and selfish desire caused this!
STOMACH: Me? Who forgot to set the timer and then decided to lay on the couch watching the entire season of Arrested Development? Go on, who?
BRAIN: Ok, let’s not start the blame game here. What we need is a scapegoat. Someone to take the fall for this. How about Penis? He’s used to getting us in trouble.
STOMACH: Good idea. I never liked that prick anyway.
BRAIN: PENIS! Wake up!
PENIS: What? Whaddya want?
BRAIN: If anyone asks, are responsible for Other Hand’s emergency rescue of a falling batch of burning cookies, causing catastrophic injury and an irreparable loss of delicious edible goods. Capice?
PENIS: Come on, who’s gonna believe that?
BRAIN: I’ve got your story all ready. It’s all quite standard, really. We’ve done it a thousand times. At 1432 hours, you spontaneously sent me an image of Catherine Zeta-Jones in a mud-wrestling match with Jessica Beil. You then proceeded to divert blood flow from critical judgment centers. Due to your monumental size, this caused an immediate shut down of all moral and logical quadrants and hereby releases me from any and all responsibility, as per standard pre-sex protocol 126b. It’s BULLETPROOF!
PENIS: Hmmm… this sounds familiar.
STOMACH: Same thing happened in The Great Barroom Debacle of 2008.
PENIS: Ah yes, now I remember. That’s why we’re no longer allowed Tequila, isn’t it?
BRAIN: Indeed it is.
TASTE BUDS: Still owe you bigtime for that one, Penis! High Five!!
BRAIN: Uh, negative on the high five, Penis. So what’s it gonna be?
PENIS: Ok, you have yourself a deal. But I want a favor in return… wait, hang on, which hand???
BRAIN: Left.
PENIS: Oh thank god. Ok, so about that favor…
BRAIN: Tonight, Penis. Usual time and place.
PENIS: Great. Penis out.
TASTE BUDS: Soooo, now that’s over… who’s up for makin’ some brownies, huh?
STOMACH: Brownies? Count me in!
TASTE BUDS: BROWNIES!!
BRAIN: I hate you guys.
FADE OUT
Heh, this is why I shouldn’t post when I should be sleeping. Ah well, c’est la vie.
Is there gonna be a ‘stupid things I’ve written’ thread? 'Cause I could pack that bitch!