Posted: March 22, 2013 in MiB Hates Us All, The Great Writing Competition-of-sorts


[This is the first topic that was selected by the best friend extraordinaire. I banged this out in half-an-hour with ten minutes to spare because procrastination is my preferred form of self-sabotage, and I interpreted it as I saw fit. Which is to say, fucking awesomely. And kind of weirdly, too… I’ll leave you to it…]

Hello there! I’ll be your narrator for the evening. I’m going to tell you a story. It’s based on a true story, and there are morals and lessons and deeper meanings hidden in it, which is what makes it a true story. Also, it’s my story, so whatever I say goes. My word is law. Now let me take you on a magical journey… I want you to close your eyes… No, not literally, fuckhead. How the hell are you going to read the story? Some people… Anyway…

Once upon a time in a mystical land not too far away called Cloverfield, the neon sun set over the shiny metallic fields with a faint humming sound and a dull bang was heard as The Door shut, sealing off the Otherworld. And so, the citizens of Cloverfield emerged from their sleepy abodes and went about their business under the Strawberry Overlords; the Cheeses went about slicing themselves, every so often screaming in pain; the Creams went about their janitorial duties, sloshing and slipping about; the Butters did whatever the fuck it is that Butters do – it’s Butter, for fuck’s sake, it just kind of lies there until it’s spread on toast and clogs your artery-veins – and the Strawberry Overlords went about overlording, as they are wont to do.  It was just another night in Cloverfield – or so it seemed.

From the dark, a figure emerged. He was a tall, dashing, handsome Splosh of Condensed Milk, soothing to look at and sweet to the taste.  When he smiled, things happened. He also has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with this story – in fact, fuck him. I hate heroes like that – all brawn and no brains, too much of one head and none of the other, always having the Skim Milk bitches fawning over them. If you really want to know, he died that night. Horribly and painfully. He fell off the Great Metal Plateau and was slurped up by the cat. End of cuntly faux-hero. Good riddance.

Still from the dark – the sun has fucking set, where the hell else is anybody supposed to emerge from? – another figure not-so-much-emerged-as-fell-the-fuck-into-the-limelight. He is our protagonist, our hero, as it were. He had stumbled into the limelight and is our hero because he was particularly drunk that night and stumbled into a particularly cuntly Splosh of Condensed Milk and sent him to his doom. His name was Dollop, and he was a dollop of Cream. He is also our hero for other soon-to-be-revealed reasons, because if he was the hero for just that, then he’d be an even shitter hero than Kickass, who is the pussy version of Batman.

Dollop sprawled around drunkenly, bottle of rum in one hand, fistfuls of floor in the other, pondering and wondering however the fuck he was going to explain his current inebriated state to his Sour Cream Squirt of a wife and why someone had just randomly screamed in a rich baritone voice. Some dairies… He fell against a lamppost, exhausted. It was then that he saw something that changed everything.

In the distance, two Strawberry Juice Policemen were pummelling a young Feta Cube into tiny little chunks. Next to the Feta Cube lay a sign with the words “Dairies have Rights Too! Stop the Oppression! Death to Juice!” written on it and which was now being slowly covered by tiny shreds of feta cheese.  Even Dollop in his drunken state could see that the policemen were fucking up this poor little protester for no reason whatsoever – but such occurrences were normal in Cloverfield. Shit happened – that was life. At least that’s what the Dairies had come to believe. Most of them, anyway.

One of the Strawberry Juice policemen turned to Dollop. He had a handlebar mustache, because why wouldn’t he?

“Hey you!” he bellowed.

Dollop started. “Me?” he asked.

“Yeah you!”

Dollop turned to the lamppost beside him. “I think he’s talking to you. You better answer him, or you’re gonna be fucked up like feta over there.”

The policeman goose-stepped over to Dollop and pimpslapped him seven ways to Sunday. Then he grabbed the bottle of rum and walked slowly back over to the Feta Cube, smiling cruelly as he brought the bottle down in a graceful arc over the poor Feta’s head and smashed out his brains. The other policeman chuckled humourlessly, his eyes and laugh filled with emptiness. Then they left, quietly.

Dollop got up and cursed a few times and then went over to the Feta Cube. It was then, as he stared down at the whitematter of the Cube seeping out beneath him, that Dollop had an epiphany. He had tears in his eyes and sorrow in his heart and he began to weep. He decided to stand up for himself and his people and overthrow the Strawberry Overlords and once and for all end this savage regime’s oppression. He would avenge his bottle of rum, come Lactobacillus or high water! Those fuckers didn’t know what they got themselves into…

To make a long story short because I’m running out of time and dairy metaphors, I’m just gonna skip straight to the climax. Dollop joined the Undertable Resistance and quickly rose up the ranks and emerged as a leader – Dollop took his liquor seriously, and vowed to see his vendetta through to the bittersweet end. The UR had meticulously planned to assassinate the Crown Strawberry Prince Ceres, who was in fact ruling Cloverfield and held all the power ever since he had his father King Liqui secretly baked into a fruitcake. Dollop had gone to kindergarten with the Crown Prince and as such knew him personally, because the hero always needs to know the villain before the villain becomes a cunt and marries a cunt wife and perhaps has some cunt kids. Dollop was put in charge of this almost-suicidal mission because he was the only dairy passionate and stupid enough to take it on, and because the UR didn’t really give a fuck about Dollop ever since he activated the self-destruct sequence at the previous UR headquarters whilst trying to watch food porn.

Dollop had planned to meet up with CB, a sexy Cranberry who was working as a double-agent for the UR and worked on other things with Dollop, if you know what I mean… They were fucking, is what I’m trying to say.

Whilst waiting at the rendezvous which was a seedy bar in some seedy part of Cloverfield, Dollop ordered a double shot of vodka and received a phone call from CB.

“I’m late,” she whispered.

Dollop spat his vodka into the bartender’s face and was promptly evicted from the bar.

“What?!?” he shouted, as he was unceremoniously kicked to the curb. “But I used a condom and everything! That’s gotta be like the fucking Immaculate Conception or some shit!”

There was a long silence. Then CB spoke.

“No, fucknut. I’m going to be late for the meeting. I’m almost there now – I think I can see you… Jesus, Dollop… and to think I let you suck my stem…”

Dollop sighed a huge sigh of relief and was then promptly tasered by CB, who, as it turns out, was a triple-agent and was fucking Ceres and his mother (sometimes simultaneously – fruit have weird fetishes, man) on the side to boot. The last thing Dollop saw before he passed out was his troops being banded into a Juice Van and CB kissing a Banana Policeman…

When he woke, Dollop was face-to-face with Ceres, bound fast to a chair. Now, you know how this typically goes – villain makes a speech, tells hero his master plan, hero escapes, stops villain, saves the world, bones all the bitches. If you would like to believe that that is what happened, then by all means, do. Have a safe ride home, and remember to always use a condom. Especially when fucking cranberries because, as you have seen first-hand, those things get around.

In actual truth, Ceres didn’t make a speech. He didn’t even remember who the fuck Dollop was. He simply went about the standard rebel disposal procedure of having the UR troops tortured while Dollop watched, and then having Dollop tortured himself. Dollop was whipped, whipped so furiously and viciously that welts rose up over his welts and he bled thick, creamy blood that splayed everywhere in the frenzy of whipping he received. And then, when he was broken and bleeding and nearing death, he was flung indifferently with his troops into a large cylindrical metal container, where they were sealed and gassed until they were dead and their bodies had merged into a lifeless heap. There they remained, decomposing, and as they rotted their bodies rose and became light and fluffy, and that is the story of Dollop and how he and his brethren’s soulless bodies are currently in the éclair you are now eating.


[For those of you who are Charlie Sheen or care about stupid things like “Winning”, it was very close but I won. Tomorrow’s topic and piece to follow soon…]

© 2012-2013 mibhatesusall.com All Rights Reserved

  1. Shaakira says:

    You are a vision, that’s all.

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