re: Food mascots and whether or not I'd be able to kick their arse

Just imagine those big old chocolate titties, smeared with syrup, the friction between their two writhing bodies making the syrup hot, reducing the viscosity until it flowed like honeywater through every trembling crevice.

You take a piping hot eggo waffle to sop up some of the syrup, but aunt jemima grabs your hand to stop you.

“No Chile, let me.”

She takes the eggo from you and sultrily slides it between Mrs. Buttersworth’s sticky sweater puppies, slick with succulent syrup, saccharine sweet.

She hands it back to you with a wink.



Uncle Ben is hiding behind a bowl of cream of wheat, furiously cranking it.


You wake up, and your pillow is all sticky.










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