cupcakevsmuffinsthemoviethegame
Eat your protein, they said. Save the world, they said. Not the world of chickens. We're eating the world of chickens. If we survive because they died, does that make us heroes? No. But it does make us survivors. It's a war for survival. With the chickens. Oorah.
The way she pined for maple syrup could only be described as natural. Her wristwatch was made of wood, for as she said, "an oaken clock is right all day erryday." She owned fur coats, fir coats, and firs with fur coat coats. Greedy? More like TREEDY. She carried it all around in a trunk. Thankfully, she's considering branching out in the near future.
Clarice tugged at the chain on her ankle. No luck. She stood up and struggled to reach the far wall, and hanging on the key hook, a donut. Just one measly donut was all she ever wanted. To clarify, the donut would supposedly remove her from her earthly body, but between you and me it was probably just gonna add to the bulk of her earthly body. That's science right there. Yeah.
The rope tightened. His jaw strained against the binding. It would be a slow death, but he never wanted to go any other way. Who wouldn't want to be hanged over a pit of lava filled with lava-resistant piranhas while slowly being electrocuted? Die in style, he always said. Silk rope for the noose just means that his self esteem wouldn't die with him.
Controlled burn, tactical retreat, and pure survival for the farmer. He struggled through the fields, glittery yellow on both sides. He spotted his team in the distance. A straight shot, but one that led right through the mutant corn warrior cyborgs.
Why did it matter? Why did any of this matter?
Jarvis stared into the red of the grill. He wondered why he bothered, why anyone bothered, why the cows laid down and died for our food, just...why.
It's all kind of cliched. Barbecues, y'know?
Who killed Barry Gorn? Who didn't kill Barry Dorn, more like. Barry Dorn killed more stomachs during his time at Fleming's than any other chef in the history of intestinal disease. And they all wanted revenge. Every. Last. One.
The legend begin on three screens in some nowhere backwater in Idaho. Three screens became thirty. Thirty screens became over two hundred fifty in forty-six states. And so on and so forth. Moviegoers would grow to love the name Sterpy Wills, and his neon magical pen butter rag.
Stretched out and relaxed. The best way to live, in some people's opinion. Not mine. I happen to be a hammock person. Some people say you can set up a hammock on your patio, I call them imbeciles and move on. Hammocks need trees, otherwise you're insulting the concept, you flea monkey.
Justin prepped the escape latch. He hit the touchscreen with his fingerprint, and the retinal scan with his extra eyeball. He tonguescanned with a leftover cow delicacy and guessed the code by playing su doku. And when it was all over with, he had third degree burns and a medal and more burns on the medal.
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