Sean King

Sam Becker

Benjamin Chandler

Emily J

Becky Carlson

Rietje Becker

English

“I’m bored, Igor. What plaything can you offer me today?” The evil doctor asked his minion with undisguised malice.

Igor froze, his brain racing. “I don’t know sir,” he said. Let me think. Igor nervously rooted around in his valise. “What about this?” he asked his master, holding up a faintly glowing key.

"The Key of Alshabrath? How did you get this?" Igor shrugged. "No big deal, master. I only had to battle the Slug God Grshgrsh to the death under the lost city of T'watissiyuu buried within the Glaciers of Mu five miles beneath the surface of Antarctica during the last new moon."

“Well, since it wasn’t any trouble—“ He reached for the key. “But master,” Igor stammered. “I thought maybe this time I could be the one—“ The master cackled. “You thought wrong!” He snatched the key from Igor’s trembling hand and held it aloft before thrusting it into the lock.

His hands were trembling with excitement as he turned the key. He wasn't sure what they would find but he sensed his luck was about to change. The lock clicked and the door slowly swung open. "Is that..." Igor stammered. "It can't be" the master said dumbfounded.

The entry revealed a large empty room, in its center a rusty bucket. They entered the room. The bucket contained a note, which read “happiness is already found.” It was then that they realized the treasure was friendship, and they had discovered it together.

Zen and the Art of Minion Management

Tj1AIbmaU3TP9tM2LITUGInvwt32

Tom Cohlmia

Nathan Bilancio

Rubani Shaw

Ben Syverson

Ross Weijer

Bo Peng

Fra Valsecchi

Ellen Strong

It was a cold day winter day in the beef box, but Sam was never bothered by the cold, if anything it invigorated him. “Today is the day” he thought “I will refactor brayne.website and finally get it compatible with Opera.”

Sam sat down his steaming coffee mug on his luxurious desk (his secret recipe, with beef bouillon powder sprinkled on top), cracked his knuckles, and began working. brayne.website was a beast of a challenge, but he knew he could wrangle it into submission.

He typed... and typed... coding like magic as his brain buzzed with energy and excitement. Before he knew it, it was already 10pm—Rietje stepped in. "Wow Sam, you're really going hog wild. Why don't you take a break? Minnie, Arthur, and Lottie then busted through screaming.

A few weeks earlier, an app was released into the world called Sweardle. Its popularity both excited and frighted Sam.

Sweardle's success prompted Sam to make a hard pivot with Byline—now users had to decode the previous line by guessing words. But the added friction in Bylirdle caused users to complain. Then, inspiration struck.

"Write better..." said Sam. "All our users need to do is write better!" He began to code, with glee.

Sam didn't trust that people would just "write better" by themselves; that's why he programmed "The Elements of Style" into them. And while he was at it, he also coded in some - rather surprising - elements into their personalities too.

For example, while everyone was programmed to have a contagious laugh (some MUCH louder than others) only some were given the ability to have the perfect pun for every occasion. And now they were all given the same goal to write a story together.

So the friends/colleagues of said loud contagious laugher contemplated the perfect 280 characters to send him off into the corporate abyss. In the end, it wasn’t a perfect story. But it was filled with chonky love.

A Ch0nky Goodbye

C0eJXhps0efE5VOY0j7PoQPE8in2

Victoria Hammel

Melissa Jeselnick

Dean Malmgren

Matt Hovde

Lauren Collins

Meridith Halsey

Ben Healy

Brian Lange

Murphy MacDonald

Sam was a talented designer and developer. He was always dabbling in something whether it was helping colleagues debug code or turning them into rodents, he was always up to the challenge.

Little did he know that some of the code he debugged was unleashing yet unknown layers of complex realities.

As he scanned the final line, preparing to release the latest build, he paused - the cursor flickering...

...which reminded him of how much he loathed his zsh configuration. Rather than hitting `submit`, Sam happily procrastinated and discovered a new Pantone color palette that would finally be visible on all of his displays.

Sam was firing on all cylinders - his attitude, his wardrobe, his home office. Rocking a mathematically impossible 110%. He felt like the '85 Bears. He smiled, nodded to himself, and pushed the button. No regrets. It was all lining up nicely. Until...

his son Arthur, his funniest sidekick, interrupted his flow and challenged him to an ice cream eating contest. There was only one rule - no hands. Sam knew he needed to entertain Arthur but he also knew...

that Arthur was allergic to dairy. But, perhaps there was an opportunity hidden here! What if Sam could find a way to balance his work flow with Arthur's innocent and joyful request for an eating contest?

Why, that would be life-changing! But alas, the things that we imagine might change our lives are not always possible, and this seemed to be one of those times.

Be Optimistic! Isn't this what we keep telling ourselves? He grabbed two of his favorite books ("Copying and Pasting from Stack Overflow" and "10 Amazing Facts About Guinea Pigs (Including Lifespan)"), put on his light pink power hoodie, and rushed out of the house.

Sam went from a brisk walk to a trot to an all out run, sneakers pounding the pavement, hoodie strings swinging. He felt liberated as he ran towards his destination, books under his arm.

Running down the street Sam heard a chiming tune. It grew louder as he approached and saw a strange animal atop a repurposed ice cream truck. The window opened releasing the unmistakable scent of BBQ Boag, and a voice said "I've been waiting for you."

BBQ Boag

Timothy Johnson

Ask any truth seeker, meme peddler, or GIF archeologist worth their salt about feline mythology and they’ll chat your ear off about fine bois, chonks, and absolute units. But only someone truly depraved will tell you the twisted tale of Quincey the ill-fated Queen of Chonktober.

Quincey the Calico, as fine a furball as ever sitted where she fitted. Already known for her ample acreage before the momentous incidents of summer 2019. Her hooman aksidentaly put Count Chocula in her kibble container. Over the following month, maximum chonk was achieved.

She had transformed into an absolute unit. The chocolatey goodness that filled her bowl every morning changed everything. She had heard of felines feasting on loops and the like, but her journey to chonksville was all her own. "Oh lawd" she thought to herself "what now?"

Naturally, she joined a spin class, genuinely surprised by the variety of chonks in attendance. Each lined up, one after another, on tiny bicycles. “Feline the burn!” yelled the only fine boi who, not surprisingly, turned out to be the instructor. Did the queen have what it took?

Getting ready for the class, the Queen traded her tiara for her favorite Sweaty-band™ with extra rhinestones. "Heckin noice", exclaimed the trainer when he beheld her drip. Even though she was the chonkiest in the gym, he began to think about siring a litter with her.

He wrote "♥︎Mr. Queen♥︎" on his time card folder, piled pillows on the couch & pretended she was watching TV with him, did image searches of chonky engagement rings. But the exercise worked—she got svelte! It killed his attraction, & he prayed a new chonktress might join the gym.

A Tale of Two Tails

JQaVDJY2GqesbeCSNq4D2IvNFgp2

Jesse Curry

Brian Bemiller

Chris Ehemann

Davis JR

Adam Baldwin

Vance Faulkner

What will

It is a natural and unavoidable phenomenon that all sprints—no matter their scope nor intensity—come to an end. We, the agile, dash through the same valley, toward the same goal, carrying the same torch. None of us as keenly aware of this fact as our commander-in-beef, Brigor.

In the plains of northern Ohio, dwelt a grill-master of great brio. The cows that eat grass, must look after their ass, lest they fall victim to the BBQ maestro.

With a sprinkle of rub and a dollop of sauce, the BBQ Maestro showed why he's the boss. No sooner did meat touch his burning hot grill than a noise came from afar most awful and shrill. He tried to ignore it, he did try his best, but the sound was so bad his meats could not rest.

Once the BBQ temp hit 350, he closed the lid and turned his attention to the screams in the distance. As he was removing his shoes to minimize the sound of his footsteps among the trees, he saw a flash out of the corner of his eye. Frozen with fear he muttered, "it can't be"

Startled, the BBQ maestro fell cheeks-first on the burning hot grill. After only a few seconds, natterns were permanently seared onto his seat. Brigor rushed to the rescue, quickly pulling the maestro back to his feet. "I have thick legs" uttered the silver-backed man-ape...

"Holdonasecond.YOU CAN TALK" said the BBQ maestro to the ape, noticing indeed its thick legs. "Am I dreaming? Did apes always have such GREAT hair? Why is my bottom burning so much?!Where are we going?!". And shortly after found himself sitting on a branch on a very tall tree.

Bemillionaire Brigor couldn't be bothered to answer the panicked inquiries and flicked a few Sellys at the maestro to calm his yammering. Brigor was (fashionably) late for his tailor appointment to design a new thiccc boy suit inspired by Lineup's latest big-time customer signing

Brigor's new suite was a big hit. He got used to strangers approaching him out of the blue with compliments on its unorthodox style or uncanny fit. That's why her slight caught him off guard. But the sting of its sarcasm evaporated with the sight of her slender figure.

Barbara was a striking woman with an ease about her that captivated Brigor. When he was in her presence everything else would fade away, transporting him to a place where only the two of them existed. She was his whole world and all that mattered was that he win her heart.

Seared Memories

Dave Foley

Doug Mill

Greg M

Admiral Baldwin finished his early morning tea and toast before pacing the deck of the S.S. Lean Coffee collecting his thoughts. He did this most days, often before sunrise. Today his thoughts leapt to the land mass looming on the horizon known to most as Falafel Island.

"This lean coffee isn't quite hitting it today", the Admiral stated. He proceeded to mix a mega-dose of Vit-D, Athletic Greens, Liquid IV and Alpha Brain into a heinous witches brew. As he pounded back the concoction, he could smell the hummus in the air, rising from the docks.

All around him plants cried out for water, but Yung Admiral just laughed. The supplements began to take effect, he could feel his mind sharpen and his muscles tighten. He was finally ready. With a skill developed over the ageless ages Roadmunk opened, as if by magic.

With Alphabrain, sponsored by Joe Rogan, flowing through his veins, Yung Admiral sprayed story points across the roadmap with the power of 50 scrum masters. He scrummed with such fervor that his back became sore. He reached for his pso-rite only to find something unexpected.

"Arghh! That's a stale baguette!", he moaned. Undaunted, he turned back to roadmunk. Items flew from his fingers: "Sharpen knife", "Crouton-forward fast casual", "Fitness pasta". He bellowed: "The features come from on high, I am merely a vessel!". The keys were a hot AK-47.

As card after card spew forth from Admiral Baldwin's fingertips, his thoughts began to converge. He felt a divine presence. It was the singularity of scrum, the apogee of agile, the climax of kan-ban. "I AM BECOME MUNK, ASSIGNER OF TASKS!" he roared. And then came the meetings...

The original, rudimentary meeting was a standup. These were time-consuming enough, but the admiral devised a new innovation. The standup would be used to schedule more meetings. He dubbed this new technology a thermonuclear meeting, and it could consume entire days worth of time.

And you wouldn't be able to simply propose a topic for the next meeting. Instead, you would have to go through an automated voice with a thick russian accent to choose between multiple languages, timezones, and shenanigans times.
Admiral Baldwin's revenge was going to be SWEET.

The meeting would then become even more complicated. Its duration would increase exponentially after every occurrence, to the point where the meeting would last forever after some time. The Zoom app would enter 'loop mode' and everyone would be stuck forever.

He realized that the only way out of this meeting loop would have to be a well-timed segue. After a break in a marathon session of shenanigans, he saw his opportunity. “Speaking of hummus vats and meat-based head ware…”

"...have you all seen the press on Doug's new startup, BEYOND Meat Fedoras? I heard he's about to raise a pre-seed round at a hundred Bemillionaire valuation". Brigor's eyebrows immediately raised with interest.

Brigor feigned interest but his mind was on the girl he met last night at the Exotic Meats Emporium. Had he finally found someone who shared his passion for finely seasoned meats? Were sparks really flying or was that just the flicker of the nearby rotisserie oven?

Either way things were heating up. Brigor knew from the moment he heard her speak. “Gimme 6 of your ch0nkiest ostrich steaks, please” He couldn’t believe his ears. She was everything he never knew he always wanted. He had found the love of his life. This was how he found Barbara.

A Segue at Sea

Chris McPherson

Peter Stuart

Nick Farina

All was quiet in the Musick household save for a mechanical hum emanating from the attic. A keen observer watching from the across street might have noticed jet black clumps of material gently tumbling out of the chimney onto fresh, powdery snow.

A fine dusting adorned the brow of a snowman next door. "Is 'he snowman is growin Barnet Fair?" quoth the cockney lad next door. Indeed the snowman had grown a full chin-curtain by late afternoon. Neighbors stared at the endless stream emanating from the Viscount's chimney.

Flashback to yesterday. The Viscount peers nervously over his shoulder before turning down an alley, sure that he hasn't been followed. He's always uncomfortable with this, but he's addicted. In his pocket, an antique pistol, he hates to put it at risk, but the situation is dire.

One nervous finger on the trigger in his pocket, the Viscount completed the transaction. He acquired the rapid beard growth serum, but at what cost?

Fifty cents shy of a beard wax, might as well get blotto instead.

Dejected, he stumbled into the closest watering hole and ordered his go-to hot buttered rum. The bartender glanced over, but quickly recoiled in horror. Greg reached up and felt hair quickly sprouting from his forehead, nose, and every other bare patch of skin on his face.

"Nonono again!" Greg rushed for the door, surrounded by the terrified looks of all those who laid eyes on him. Somebody must have spiced his first rum with beard growth serum. "Waitaminute is it full moon too?! Alright, i think i know who can help me" and Young Adam came to mind

Like Young MC and Young Thug, Young Adam was a rapper who chose his name as a nod to the youth of the streets. “Look, I can’t help you, Greg. I don’t know anything about beards. Try Sam. He’s got crazy hair. Oh, and call me Lil’ Adam now. Young Adam was already taken on Tik Tok.”

But Lil' Adam had a big heart. Despite his nefarious reputation for being a bad boy, he also was a regular volunteer at The Foundation for Lil' Finger Painters of America (FLFPA). His passion for finger painting was strong, only surpassed by his passion for a forbidden lover...

They were brought together one fateful day, when they reached for the same smock. The paint may have been tempera but nothing could temper his feelings for her. He said hello then tried to segued into asking her to paint with him. This was no paint by numbers... it was true love.

"Speaking of tempera" he said with the smooth confidence of a fully bearded Greg, "I have a half-finished adult coloring book waiting for me at home, would you care to join me"? She did, and they created beautiful pre-drawn art together. The first of many for years to come.

Lost in Greg's Beard

Deep off the coast, in the treacherous hills of Retrium, a close-knit band of developers, designers, and product owners huddled around a crackling fire in the dead of night. As was tradition, each member came prepared with criticisms and praise necessary to improve the tribe.

The warrior-cleric tending to his falcon familiar asked the party, "Anyone for a batch of Lean Coffee?", but none replied. A secret recipe from his home in the fens, this brew was strong and overcame the cold of the harshest of Decembers in North Umbria. The meeting was about to

commence as a bolt of lightning ripped across the sky. The quickening was upon us. A scream pierced the thick fog, no doubt Connor MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod. The warrior-cleric sent his falcon aloft, eyes rolling into his head as he enters the falcon's mind. Who was out there?

After 3 hours of no telepathic visions, Connor realized the brutal truth. The falcon's eyes were not rolling into its head to signal a transition to another dimension in which it can see the future... it was having a seizure. You see, the falcon is a diabetic.

It's true, there are a lot of falcons living in the United States and some are pretty sick and have trouble keeping up with their medications.

"GPT-3 is a helluva drug" he grunted to himself having just used the AI tool to finish his latest Highlander fanfic with Connor Macleod fighting off a clan of Falconers that feed their Falcons a cocktail of Modafinil, Speed, and Meatcember specials.

Clop clop clop. "What's that? Is someone sneaking up on me while wearing wooden shoes!?" Suddenly a kilt-wearing horse pranced into view.

"Scots.. they're all the same" thought Connor MacLeod. "I'd have a long face too if I drank that bog water they pass off as whiskey." The horse began bagpiping with great gusto. In traditional fashion, there was nothing under the kilt. "OH FOR THE LOVE OF HADRIAN!"

But Connor hadn’t ventured this far north to waste his time listening to middling equine musicians. He had an intense craving, one that could only be satisfied by a single succulent, savory confection. His mouth watered as he imagined the salty highland haggis coating his tongue.

A knock, knock, knock on the door of Gladys' Haggis - just as he practiced in his mind so many times before. But nothing. Peeking in the window all he saw was a mattress, latticed, laying there on the floor!

He walked around the house, to the back by the kitchen. Took another peek in the window and there it was...smoking hot, delicious haggis. "They must be here somewhere", he thought, and then he heard it... the kilt-wearing horse was near.

Kilt or no kilt, that horse was not going to spoil his haggis feast. He quickly slid the window open and jumped inside. As he approached the plate of sheep insides, he heard a voice behind him. “There can be only one.”

“One what?” he replied. His thoughts quickly returned to the previous summer. Had he been discovered? Did someone know? But he left no trace!

Out of the darkness walked a ghostly young lady, dressed in white. She was alive!

"She didn't get eaten by the eels" Vance says. "I wasn't nervous" Adam clarifies. "Maybe I was a little bit concerned, but that's not the same thing." Vance offers to stop reading, but Adam is already too invested, "No, You could read a little bit more ... if you want, Grandpa."

Retrium for a Dream

Cookie duster, dirt squirrel, lip luggage, nose neighbor, face lace, mouth brow, or simply the prosaic stache. While they go by many names, not all mustaches are created equal. This is the tale of a particular soup strainer that changed the world—and the man it rode in on.

In his teenage years, far ahead of his peers, Esau had grown a full Selleck by the time his feet could reach the pedals on his father's Plymouth Duster. In the 80s with this stashe, his swatch, and Walkman he was coveted by the most prestigious upperclassman gangs in school.

Esau's brother Jacob always coveted his 'stache, so much so that he managed to convince Esau to sell him the magical talisman that allowed it to become so bushy so quickly. Unbeknownst to Esau Jacob planned to use the power of the 'stache to win the favor of their father Isaac.

"Grow up, grow out, grow high and low" Jacob chanted, talisman in hand. As he enunciated the final w, the magic began. What was once a dusting of stubble on Jacob's upper lip became a 'stache that would make Magnum PI blush. But would it be good enough to win over his father?

Jacob walked over to where his father sat, head buried in a newspaper. After a moment, his father looked up and stared at his son’s face. “Nice face-bush, Jake,” he said as he went back to his newspaper. "Also, that thing in your hand is glowing."

Jake blinked. "It's not glowing." His father's face went white. "It's a ghost, Jake." He stood up and walked over to Jake, placing a hand on his shoulder.

A real life, actual ghost. He always imagined himself acting more decisively in a moment like this, taking some sort of heroic or evasive action. Instead he stood completely still, paralyzed in fear, as the specter came within an inch of his face.

The ghost pulled out a Q-Tip and started gently cleaning his ears. "Don't try this at home. I'm a ghost."

His segue reminded me of the recent "top 5 rappers" thread in the East Saint Rutherford Boys School Alumni (1996-2003) Slack channel. I understand why Q-Tip and Ghostface are so often cited, but Mark Wahlberg? 

Je ne comprend pas! 

I ignored the ghost as hard as I could.

"Good grace that thing is annoying.
I had the feeling that summoning a ghost over a zoom halloween extravaganza wasn't a great idea. I wonder if the magical talisman works the way around too" he thought, while combing his voluptuous moustache.

He turned the talisman over and examined the backside. There was a small recession near the top; he cleaned it out with the q-tip and gently inserted the magic bean. In a flash of blinding light, the annoying ghost was transformed. Standing before him was George H. W. Bush.

His gleaming visage emerged from a thousand points of light. The people rejoiced at the promise of no new taxes. But it was not to be. Taxes went up. Bush was unfamiliar with standard 1980s grocery store technology. A saxophone solo wailed in the distance, and Bush shuddered.

Just as George was at his lowest point, Barbara walked in. Her brilliant white hair and perfectly arranged pants suite always made her the center of attention in any Washington gathering.

Barbara always took his breath away and this time was no different. The magic began when he saw first saw her climb out of her Plymouth duster and persisted through countless adventures: ghost encounters, Q-tip concerts, bad facial hair... you name it. It was a love for the ages.

When George Met Barbara

Justin Massa

Sit back in your coziest chair, in front of your warmest hearth, and prepare yourself for this most ghoulish tale of one feline's harrowing journey from chonk to fine boi—cause oh lawd it's comin'.

"My journey began", quoth Sir MegaMeows, "within the year 2010 and I was diagnosed with onset kitty Diabeetus. I set upon a plan to loose 2 stone by Octoberfest that year". The cat cycled through "Catogenic", "Catkins" and "Pescatarian" diets, but the kilos did not melt away.

As he was reminiscing, the cat's mind stumbled upon an old memory he had not returned to for many years. It was of his first fling, the beautiful and buxom Miss Fanny Feline. They had shared a happenstance bowl of Fancy Feast on New Year's eve, minutes before the mouse dropped.

Just thinking about that night he could taste the classic ocean pâté with tuna that they had dined on. He didn’t typically indulge in tuna due to the high mercury levels, but He would have done anything for Miss Fanny. She had his whole heart from the moment he laid eyes on her.

As he devoured the mercury-laden chicken of the sea he pictured Miss Fanny and their life together, but his mouth became as dry as the desert. An idea suddenly took hold. He’d add Mayo and celery. He had a chicken salad of the sea. He was ready.

His muscles now firing on all cylinders thanks to the protein rich pre-competition meal, he stepped on to the stage and heard the announcers call: "Boy and girl cats and kittens, making his 3rd and final attempt at 150kg on the clean and jerk, Mr. Whiskers."

He giggled. But this was no time for his middle school sense of humor. He had worked his tail off (his tail actually having fallen off due to a kettlebell accident last summer) to get to this moment. He wrapped his paws around the barbell and lifted.

Initially, he struggled to gain his balance. As he had learned, Tails are an essential tool for maintaining balance, especially during a stunt like this.

He zigged and zagged, and tumbled and pranced - quite an elegant display for a half Ch0nk. His confidence brimmed as he stuck the landing when ::BAM:: a Jack-o-lantern with an anatomically accurate carving of a Ch0nker crashed into his side. In a daze, his attacker came in view.

It couldn't be! Michelangelo himself? The party dude?! And where was he getting those pumpkins?

I nervously approached the turtle with the dual nunchaku and my favorite member of TMNT. "Cowabunga!" I exclaimed, raising my hand in hopes that a high five - or, well a high three - might be possible. 

I wasn't prepared for how he reacted.

My mind wandered. I dreamed of blue turtles.

And I was in my childhood home with my family..even though it wasn't my childhood home and that wasn't my family. Weird dream. It always happens when I have lasagna before bed. And there was this ginarmous cat...or maybe it was just the furriest cat I've ever seen.

I slowly picked myself up and entered a deep stretch, blinking lazily at the food bowl on the other side of the room. With a flick of my tail, I sauntered towards it. Upon arrival, I noticed that the bottom of the bowl was slightly visible. Oh heyl naw. "MMMEEEOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW!"

I attacked that night as he slept, depositing my girth over his face. He would’ve been able to toss off a fine boi with ease, but he had no chance against this megachonk. His wife walked in on the gruesome scene and let out a final lament as I set upon her. “Oh lawd, he comin”.

All Chonks Eve

Katie Beach

Maureen Cushing

"Some day, and that day may never come, I will call upon you to do a service for me," said the Godfrather. "But until that day, consider this justice a gift on my daughter's wedding day. A fravor, if you will."

You can hear the wedding festivities just outside of the study doors. It sounds like bottles of Prosecco endlessly popping, the soft melody of distant church bells, and, unbelievably, bunnies squeaking. The Godfrather dismisses you, and you are happy to forget the fravor for now

As you step outside of the study with a pile of books from The Godfrather, it dawns on you. Shit! The church bells. The Prosecco bottles. Especially the bunnies. Those are for you. "How could I have fragotten? Shit shit SHIT!" You race home with the fravor a distant memory.

As you run in the house you realize you left your dress for your big day at the dry cleaners! You race towards your closet, you must have something you can wear! You don't want to have to spray paint your body gold like the Frascars!

Determined to not let this snafu ruin your big day, you decide to improvise. A couple old shirts and dresses, some scissors and a lot of vino is all you need to right this ship. As you finish your first glass make the first cut, the doorbell rings.

Startled, you drop the glass and scissors on your foot. You look down and see nothing but red. Blood or wine? There's no time. You grab the bottle by the neck and head for the door. "Am I wearing pants?" you think to yourself as you pull it open with a great creak. "Oh lawd..."

Tumbling through the door, bottle of wine in hand and pantless you start to run. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. You’re not moving! You realize that you’re on a treadmill. How did this happen?!

Pantless, drinking wine, and treadmilling - any one of those is daily common occurrence, but all three at once? Now that's a real dog's lasagna! There could only be ONE possible explanation (within reasonable statistical certainty of course), "OMG" she shouted as she realized...

She had just made herself into the ultimate canine snack. For her own safety, she put down her glass and began pacing around her room in an attempt to calm herself down. "Oh, I... um ... I'm sorry," she started as she stared back at the empty coffee cup.

"Think, dammit" she muttered to herself. What was she going to do with all of this bacon? It had seemed like such a good idea to cook 18 lbs of bacon the day before the big brunch, but now she had to figure out a way to make it from her room to the buffet w/o becoming a chew toy.

In her closet she found her traveling suitcase. "This will have to do", she mused to herself as she lined the luggage with parchment paper. Layering in the 18 lbs of bacon, she clicked the little Samsonite lock shut. Leaving her room, she heard the dogs outside salivating.

“On second thought,” she pondered to herself, “Lady Gaga wore a meat dress of her own a few years ago. Maybe bacon is too derivative”. She dumped the contents of the suitcase out the window as the dogs descended. “So... poultry or seafood?” she asked herself.

It didn’t have to be either/or. “Chicken of the sea!”, she yelled as she followed the suitcase out the window. Her PhD in Astrophysics told her that she would survive the jump. Her success on “So You Think You Can Dance?” ensured she’d stick the landing and look good doing it.

With grace and gravitas, Fra landed the jump on the tarmac. To her surprise, her lover stood there as if expecting her. What he said next, she'll never forget...

May our lives together be ever filled with ❤️ and ☀️.

Frather of the Bride

JUSTIN MASSA

Kara S

Fall had come early to Belleville. Julian swept the leaves from his stoop and flipped the sign adorning his bodega from CLOSED to OPEN. He hadn't made it to the deli counter by the time a shadowy figure burst through the door. "How fresh is your chicken salad?" she asked gravely.

"We have many different flavors, each flavor has it's own unique properties from 'freshly-killed this morning' to 'dry-aged'", Julian quipped at the customer. "For instance, our 'Fancy Vance' was slaughtered and plucked by yours truly today, 'Doug's Drugs' has been aged 39 days.

The customer looked down at his teenage son, Adam, as if to say, “Do any of those sound good to you?” Adam, of course, was oblivious and completely engrossed in TikTok. "Where did I go wrong?" the father muttered to himself.

As he looked back up at the cashier he shook his head. "Kids these days." He couldn't believe his own son was so distracted by videos showing soccer balls being cut in half, only to reveal it was a cake. And it was at this moment, he heard "Cat's in the Cradle" begin to play.

Unprepared for the incipient Verities & Balderdash he lost control of his emotions. Tears ran down his cheeks as he harkened back a time when he too was enamored with gastronomic trompe l'oeil. He thought to himself "he'd grown up just like me, my boy was just like me".

After a good cry, he snapped out of it. Was he someone that sat alone in his living room, sipping cheap whiskey and crying to an overrated Cat Stevens song, or was he a man of action? Determined to not let this situation get the best of him, he grabbed his keys and hit the road.

As he drove, his father’s dying words kept bubbling up in his mind: "you can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit". He knew the way back to her heart was through her stomach. Next stop: Sal’s Deli and Plumbing Supply.

The store was one of the few that still offered a chicken salad in the back of their shop. He walked in and saw an empty table in the back. Approaching the table while equipping his pocket fork, he scanned for the bucket of pickled salad.

He settled into his usual booth. "Good evening, sir" the waiter said, his nose buried in his scratchpad, "can I start you off with a...oh, Mr. Poulet. I didn't realize...your usual sir?" T-Bone nodded subtly, never breaking gaze with his pocket fork, "and make it a real Ch0nker."

He would never let anyone know, but being recognized by a waiter always thrilled T-Bone. It made him feel special. Loved. 

But he didn't linger on these feelings. He needed to prepare himself for the feast to come.

However, as foretold by Dr. (honorary, Central State U 1989) Michael Gerard Tyson, our man T-Bone's preparations dissolved the moment the Wagyu (inauthentic as it happened; despite his name, he pursued a lifelong ignorance of the butcherous arts) punched him in the mouth. Lawd!

"So you're telling me that after all this massaging, marinating, and aging, this thing still tastes like chicken? They should give ME a PhD for my chicken salad recipe. 4.95 out of 5 stars from 15k reviews on my food blog ohlawdhecoming.com. Beat that."

The grizzled old chef wriggled his nose, looked begrudgingly at the entitled millennial, and reached into his satchel. Pushing aside pouches of ready-to-eat chonk light Chicken-of-the-Land® corporate food rations, he retrieved a note yellowed with age. It was his secret recipe.

The scrawny millennial had been trying to bulk for years, but the protein shakes had no effect on his frail physique. He had seen the chef’s cat, the main beneficiary of the regime, and knew he had found the answer:
- 4 cp Crisco 
- 14 strips bacon
- 2 lt. Pepsi
- Blend and enjoy

Chicken Salad for the Soul

Karen flipped idly through her alphabetized record collection, settling quickly on the B’s as she so often did. She’d met the most incredible person this morning and there was only one crooner who would understand. She chose the most well-worn album and gently removed the sleeve.

With the silky smooth Canadian-Italian voice in the background, Karen's mind replayed her chance encounter from the morning. His name was Vance and they met at Starbucks inside the Publix Super Market. She couldn't help but notice the elegantly crafted Ruby code on his laptop.

She had walked by his table and Vance saw her staring. "Best gem I've see all day," Karen said. He was taken aback by her comment. It was enough to make any dev stall, but felt something between them. "Would you like to pair?" he asked. Hoping she didn’t have dependency issues.

Karen replied "I'm not one for coupling, but I love dependency injection and I don't mind a little inversion of control". Vance thought to himself "game on", he went to stand, but his palms were sweaty, his knees weak, arms were heavy. He's nervous, but he looks calm and ready.

After wiping the spaghetti his mom made for dinner off his now stained sweater, Vance was ready to make his move, although he had no idea what Karen meant by "Inversion of control." Throwing caution to the wind, Vance grabbed Karen, but was immediately distracted by a loud crash.

"And there he is again, crash landing right into your dining room. At least you could have left the window open for him. You know that I don't like this open relationship thing and, yet, you cannot tel go of Tom" Vance told Karen, letting her go and walking towards the door.

Becky Carlson
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