We never thought eating those fruit snacks with high fructose corn syrup would do anything more than give us diarrhea. But Tim hadn’t even swallowed before his head transformed into a giant watermelon. His neck wasn’t strong enough to support the weight, and he crumpled to the ground. He made the mistake of not protecting his head, which burst like a melon, because that’s what it was.
The FDA issued a recall the next day, but it was too late. A YouTube video showed a girl with a blueberry head at a party being drained by hoses sucked on by frat boys. The commenters misspelled “suck” twenty different ways. The Red Cross banned anybody affected from donating blood. One of their chairmen tried to explain it on Dateline. “Well, you see, the blood mingles with the … acidic … well ….”
“And?” said the interviewer, flashing his strawberry seed smile.
It was sad Tim was dead but I was busy having my first girlfriend. We didn’t know what went where but we were down for experimenting. One time I spent thirty minutes licking her belly button lint. I tried not to hurt her but she always bled, and then she’d ask me to kiss her booboo, and when I did it tasted like fishsticks.
That was great at first, because my mom had been trying to get me and my dad to go vegetarian, and I hadn’t tasted anything meaty in months. Then one night I walked in on my mom sobbing over a frying pan of seitan.
“All I want is for this family to be healthy,” she said. Her nose was all clogged up from the tears.
“Oh shut up, Greta,” my dad said from the living room. “You sound like a kazoo.”
There’s enough people who’ve disappointed Mom. The next time my girlfriend asked me to kiss her there, I came equipped. I used my middle finger to stick the fruit snack as deep as it would go.
When her pussy turned into a swollen cherry, she whimpered. I wanted to please her more than anything. I ate and ate until she was no longer moving, and I was covered in juice.
