Saturday, January 18, 2014

Grounds for divorce. #4

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He hated the smell of fish and rotting cheese in the morning. And she bloody well knew that. He fell off the bed and stumbled in his sleep-daze towards the coffee pot, one arm covering his nose, intending to unplug it, until it dawned upon him that it wouldn't do any good at all. Much easier to just jump out of the bloody window. But it would be waiting for him at the bottom. It would follow him to the depths of hell, to the barber's shop, on his dates and drinks with friends. Back when he had friends. With a hollow groan, he poured himself a cup. He didn't bother looking into the coffee to see what it contained, and shut out the squelching noises coming from within. He took a deep drag.

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She was annoyed. She hated the odorous brown liquid that filled up her stew pot whene'er she wanted to cook a good meal. Whatever she put in her stewing pot invariably got mucked around. She'd tried everything. Filling it up with soap water, dumping garbage in it, using it as a last line of defense against that rabid cat. She'd heated stuff, cooled stuff, sauteed, marinated, broiled and salted a variety of increasingly aromatic substances, all of which turned into that disgusting brown stuff. Today, she'd tried to make a nice family recipe involving tuna and a sharp cheese, but even that had failed to sate the devil pot's appetite for transmogrification. She was almost ready to throw the darn pot away

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In the shadows between time and space, the earl of poor eating laughed maniacally.

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Monday, January 13, 2014

Found it.

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At last, I found it. And in such an unlikely place, too.
(Mayhap this one is not so old as thought, after all.)