This is what makes for good writing. Detailed details and documenting the character's thoughts in italics. Readers appreciate the insight. Note how this story comes to life!
-----------------------------------------------------
Stephen took the previously frozen pizza out of the oven.
This pizza used to be in the fucking freezer.
He managed to escape third degree burns on his right hand (his preferred hand) by using an oven mitt.
I'm glad I'm not some left-handed fuck. Fucking puffy oven mitt.
The oven mitt was black and made from a puffy fabric. Stephen assumed the oven mitt had certain flame retardant properties. He thought about the oven mitt's flame retardant properties as he stuck his hand into the oven to retrieve his previously frozen pizza.
This fucking thing better protect my fucking hand. I'd better not get third-degree burns, motherfucker.
The directions on the backside of the pizza box indicated that the pizza should be baked for eighteen to twenty-one minutes at a temperature of four-hundred degrees.
Fucking eighteen to twenty-one fucking minutes. Figures. I don't have eighteen to twenty-one fucking minutes.
The pizza had approximately fifteen pepperoni looking things sitting on top.
Fifteen Pepperoni looking things. You fuckers.
Stephen assumed these were, in fact, pepperonis. This could have been an elaborate ruse by the Nestle corporation to deceive him. He thought about the possibilities of this conspiracy as he cut the pizza into eight equal slices with his pizza cutter.
I bet these aren't actual pepperonis. Nestle fuckers. Just like the World Trade Center towers weren't actually hit with actual planes. Muslim fuckers.
He bought this particular pizza cutter at a local grocery store. The grocery store has since gone out of business and the contents were liquidated at a sheriff's auction.
Fucking sheriff and his fucking auction. Fuck him and the horse he rode. Fuck horses too.
No comments:
Post a Comment