These very short short stories were originally posted on Demi’s Tumblr. Check it out!
The new Doritos ‘FLAVOUR’ flavour has so much flavour! The flavour will take over your mouth! The flavour will take over your brain! The flavour will consume the universe! Your loved ones and everyone you ever met will be doomed to an eternity of flavour!
They say that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, which is a weird proverb, because it’s not really encouraging anything except ringing bells. Also, I hope if it’s true, it’s always the same angel getting wings. He’s gotta be close to death by now.
Or maybe he has heart conditions because he’s forced to drink a Red Bull every time a bell rings.
Maybe the bell ringing is notifying the angel that it’s time to drink the Red Bull , and he has loads of energy so the wings are also really muscly. But he’s not using them for good, he’s just fucking up loads of people’s card castles.
The Birds and the Bees
I remember when my dad first told me about the birds and the bees… He said:
“Demi, it’s time I told you about the birds and the bees. I left the front door open and they got inside and scared me and the front room is all fucked up. Also the birds are bald eagles. They look hungry. They’ve taken your mother and sisters. That probably should’ve been one of the first things I told you about this bird/bee situation but anyway don’t go in the front room and would you call the police? Oh, before you do, let me just tell you one more thing—[he pulls his rubber dad-mask off to reveal bald eagle face] I am the birds—[pulls pants down to reveal stinger] and the bees. Also don’t fuck nobody gross.”
And I guess that’s always stuck with me.
You have your switchblade boots on and you’re kicking the homeless man in the mouth but instead of the blade flicking out it’s a turkey sub and tears of happiness stream down the vagrant’s face and your hoodlum chums still think you’re badass.
“AND NOW TO WRITE MY MEMOIRS!” You repeatedly stab the stack of paper with your pen and pour your coffee over the desk. “TIME TO GO TO PRINT!” You jam the papers and pen into a shredder and throw the shredder in the furnace.
“I hate you!” your son screams, slamming his bedroom door.
The confusion on your face is soon replaced by a small, knowing smile.
You sit softly on the bed. “Son, is this because… because I have the sickest flow?”
He rubs his bloodshot eyes. “…it’s just… such a sick flow.”
You cry together.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, homie.”
You tap the woman on the shoulder. “Excuse me, miss, is this guy bothering you?”
“No, he’s actually my—”
“I’ll take care of him. What about this guy? Is he bothering you? Taken care of. And him? What about this guy? And her? And her baby? Geez, maybe you should be thicker skinned, lady.”
You walk away and mime wiping perspiration from your brow. “Dodged a bullet there!” you tell the arresting officer.
After being locked in your study for three weeks, you take your specially designed gay-test to your son. “Now I’ll finally know!” You try to convince him to take it but he’s too busy blowing his boyfriend to notice.
“…I mean, sure, duck semen kills bacteria, but it ain’t gonna wash that duck semen off your hands! Haha! So, whaddaya say we head back to my place after this drink?”
When you arrive home, alone, you take Weet-Bix out of the cupboard and eat them from the packet, dipping them in anything runnier than Weet-Bix. You strap a diaper to your face to absorb the rest of your dreadful words and wait to die.
“Would you like to feel the baby kick?” the woman asks you.
You put both hands on her belly, and wait. “I can’t feel anything” you tell her.
“Wait a minute, it’ll come,” she replies with a smile. After a minute, the woman says “Oh well! I suppose she’s calmed down for the minute.”
She begins to move away but you hold her in place, staring intently at the belly, not blinking. The woman struggles for a second, but it’s no use. You breathe heavily and your eyes bulge. Time slows to a glacial drip. Outside of the school auditorium, empires rise and fall. Everybody you knew and loved in the world dies. You cling to the belly, waiting.
“I felt it!” you cry, eventually, but the pregnant woman has already given birth, and died of old age.
You go to a party and there’s a guy with a severed lion head there, and everyone is making fun of him because it smells and it’s heavy but he wont put it down, and you all leave him on his own and giggle. “What a ninny,” you probably say, then suddenly terrorists barge through the door and start smacking and shooting everyone and the guy with the lion head pulls a hidden sword out of the lion head and kills all of the terrorist and then himself. You feel really bad about it and say “We never even knew him. We never even asked his name.” Anyway, that’s my manager, he can help you with what you’re looking for.
Hello everyone, I’m Jeff. I’ve had my phobia for about six years
now, and I’d be lying if i said it hasn’t been somewhat debilitating.
You see, I have an irrational fear of murderers. I suppose it all
started when my parents were murdered by a murderer. It sort of scarred
me, and now, for longer than I can remember, I simply haven’t been able
to be in the same room as a murderer… I break out in a cold sweat, I get
anxious… It just feels so good to get this all out.