Toaster Tale

You always liked to play games. Sometimes sweet. Sometimes spicy.

One day, we stood in the kitchen talking about your kink for tasty toes. You often joked that you would love to set my feet on fire. I thought you were just being a bit creative.

One evening, as we sat in the lounge room, you bring the toaster to me. There’s a weird look on your face. I ask you ever so casually, “What are you doing?”

“I’m understanding the fire of feet…”

“What the…? You better not turn it on! No! Wait! Don’t put my toes in there! I shall kill you!”

“I won’t turn it on, I promise.”

“…You’re so weird…My poor feet. They cry in terror at the thought…”

“I would roast my toes for you baby.”

“No, you won’t.”

Suddenly, his toes are in the toaster.

“Please don’t turn it on!

 

 

Caravan Park Conundrum

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He’s a retired surgeon with a taste for woodwork.  He lives with his wife in a lovely house with good security and a vegetable patch. There’s a park down past his rear fence, which is pretty and quiet. However, to the right of his house, just a few blocks away, sits a caravan park.

No one knows how this caravan park came to be built in this location. Some say it was a stroke of genius on the developer’s part, while others say that the developer bribed the Council.  There is a reason why the caravan park now sits on that land, but let us not get carried away.

He loves the quiet. It’s wonderful for reading, woodwork, painting, and more. Sometimes he likes to give the stereo a blast to remind him of the 70’s.  It’s never before 9 am and always before 10 pm. He respects his neighbours.  He thinks he’s sweet.

He remembers his first Saturday once the caravan park was up and running. There was never a Saturday like this one before, but will probably be many thereafter.  That Saturday changed him forever.

Now Saturday has arrived again. It is the night. There is a wild party, and the caravan park is alive. What is this hell he must endure? Why is there so much noise? He finds relief with earplugs to grab a few hours sleep.

Then, Sunday descended. Saturday was hard, but Sunday is worse. Sunday consists of many fights from hell. Beer bottles fly about, kitchen utensils and tools go everywhere, shouting and banging lingers, and there’s an awful lot of barbecues.

There is a lull at 3 am, which turns into quiet. The weekend is over for another week. There is so much relief.

Your World of Bling

You live in a world of bling.  Kitsch Swarovski bracelets line your arms, new wave necklaces and earrings from markets and independent sellers line your walls and the Duchess in your bedroom. More beautiful pieces lay locked in your safe, but they are large and gaudy.  

Fashionista, you walk down the halls of fashion magazine offices, take to the seats before runways so modern, and mingle with the fashion elite at shallow parties with dim lights, awful music, and terrible cocktails.  You are living and loving in the scene of chic cool and unencumbered soulless troglodytes.  Never a moment to stop and think about where your life is going or what you will do when those looks fade or your world crumbles.

You invited a new crowd to your home for a party.  They’re a dull bunch, but you think they may be of some use to you.  You’ve become so used to equating commodities with people that you forgot what it means to be human.

He walks in and makes your heart do a saucepan dance.  So loud is your heart, you can barely hear him speak.  This is not who you’re usually like, or is it how you usually act.  He smiles at you and you go a bit limp and loose; melting all over the floor. As you start to talk, it becomes clear he is a particularly sexy chap with elegant attire and a haughty way.  You simply cannot understand yourself.  Why is he doing all of these things to me?

The party goes well, you see most of those boring guebangle-2156210_960_720sts to the door, but he lingers.

He says to you with a sarcastic smile, “Bangle girl, you are so weird…what are they anyway?” 

You’re about to give him the flick but unintentionally say, “They’re kitsch Swarovski. It’s not to everyone’s taste, but I like them…”

Eyeing more than just your bangles, he says, “I don’t mind them.  They suit you…we can’t all be alike…”

You eye each other for a bit, it becomes slightly awkward, and then you both launch into a session of wild pashing, together with a bit of touch and tingle. The floor becomes your bed. You’re both rolling around like 20-year-olds.  Turns out those bracelets, or bangles as he calls them, has multiple uses.

Cullender of Colander

At home she rinses the vegetables in the Colander.  The water washes over the vegetables, then down through the holes, and into the drain to head for the water treatment plant.  Once the water arrives it is treated and cleansed so that humans can consume the resource again.

You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook you food and how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about, or if you have lost the plot.

Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.

Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain to head for the water treatment plant. Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.