Aunt Becky’s Casserole

You haven’t lived until you’ve had my Aunt Becky’s casserole. Seriously. Whatever that shitty fucking excuse for an abortion was that you claimed as your “existence” is all total bullstuffing compared to the life you’re gonna lead after devouring some of Aunt B’s cassie rolls. I mean, this thing will transport you to a whole new world. Like that sluttytits Jasmine from The Little Mermaid. Whatever you thought was right is suddenly wrong. What’s down is up. What was real now seems spurious. Steve Spurious. You thought you knew, but you had no idea. This is the Diary of Aunt Becky’s Casserole.

I recollect the first time my taste buds had the honor of encountering Aunt Becky’s C-Role. I was 7 years old and it was 4th of July weekend. Dad was lighting sparklers and Kentucky Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Das. His eyebrows had been singed clean off. He’d been drinking Bud Heavy and you could see a dark ring of piss around where the tip of his knuckleduster oughta be in his shorts. Aunt Becky was there sucking cigarettes down her stoma barking about how she gobbled on Richard Petty’s nutsack during a pit stop at ‘Dega ’85. She was shoveling casserole onto paper plates and passin’ em around to anybody that would take one.

I remember that first fork full. The clouds parted and a beam of light descended from above -ancient aliens style. Time ceased. Like remember when Zack would stop time on Saved By The Bell and everyone would freeze and he’d address the camera. They call it breaking the fourth wall. SBTB was way ahead of it’s time. They were dicking around with time travel way before Lost. Member when Screech and Zack got in a fight over that twat-trap Lisa Turtle and everybody slurpin on sodie-pops at the MAX was watchin’ like WHAAAT? How could Z-Bird be into Lisa when he knows good and well how much his best bro Dusty ‘Screech’ Diamond wanted to finger fuck that pile of brown sugar? Plus, no offense Lisa Turtle but you are a solid 7.5. Totally bangable but I mean, c’mon, have you seen Kelly? She’s got a pouty little snapper molded out of solid gold, shaved cleaner than Stone Cold Steve Austin’s dome. And Zack was slurpin’ on that ham wallet back in middle school. That whole thing with Lisa was just a fling for Zack. Was it right to do that to Screech? No. Shit’s fucked up. But can you blame him for wanting to get a taste of that dark meat just once? No. A little leg and thigh ain’t never hurt nobody. Diversity is the spice of life. Saved By The Bell addressed interracial relationships way before we  had our black president Obama and Big Willie was kissin’ our white women on our big screens.

Where was I? Oh right. Becky’s casserole was the tittyfuck. After that first bite, I was engulfed in a cocoon of warm light. I found myself floating above, looking down at myself and I could see everything. My beginning. My end. Jesus Christ of Nazareth was there. So was Marty King Junior and Heath Ledger. In that instant my testicles descended and they’ve been there ever since.

Where’d You Get Those Overalls At?

Where’d you get those overalls at? They’re so hillbilly chic. So ironic. So working class. So Rural. So Tom Sawyer-esque. So Alex Mac-ian. So Mario 64-ish. It’s like you’re in that band Dexy’s Midnight Runners.  It’s like, come on Eileen, seriously, come on, those are some nice ass overalls. It’s like you’re a farmer who just got done squeezing on some cow’s big fat titty, squirting it’s milk-cum every whichaway. You know, that’s a lifestyle choice I can respect. There is something dignified about working with your hands, squeezing titties all the live long day. That’s real salt of the earth shit. Sometimes it’s refreshing to just get back to the basics. Back to nature. Just hands and titties. Like Henry David Thoreau or Ted Kaczynski. Yep, dem were simpler times. That was before the google and the Jason Mraz and those shoes that light up when you walk around on em. Long before your Screech Powers’, and your Bawitdaba’s, and your 1-800-COLLECT’S. Back then, you would wake up to the smell of hickory-bacon frying in an open skillet and the crack of logs being split out back. I’d get going right near sun up, put on my burlap sack, some overalls, and drink a warm cup of fresh squeezed milk-jizz. We would all get belly full on hickory-bacon and mama’s grit cakes before we headed out into the fields. Best part was, we didn’t have to wear no shoes, if’n we didn’t want to. Worst part was, if we didn’t pick that cotton fast enough or we stopped to take a sip of water, that old overseer would come beat the shit out of us with a horsewhip. I ‘member one time Erasmus May and me decided it was too hot to work, so we goes and sneaks off into the cantaloupe patch and get us a nice fat melon to snack upon. Long story short, they tied us up and beat the shit out of us with a horsewhip.