crass kitchen humor

by Bill Tiepelman

Pour Decisions

The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made spoons nervous and measuring cups develop existential dread. Then suddenly—click—the cabinet door creaked open. Gerald the glass pitcher stretched out with a wide, unhinged grin, water sloshing behind his bulging eyeballs. He licked his nonexistent lips (don’t ask how), flexed his translucent handle, and whispered, “Time to get moist.” Across the counter, Melvin the mug jolted awake with a shiver. “Oh for the love of glass—Gerald, not again!” he screeched, eyes wide as a dinner plate. “It’s 7 a.m. and I haven’t even been descaled yet!” But Gerald was already mid-stalk. “Melvy, Melvy, Melvy... don’t be such a drip.” He raised himself to full height, water gurgling ominously. “You know you want it. You’re empty, I’m full. Let’s pour some magic, baby.” Melvin backed up an inch, handle trembling. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t like you. I just—last time you poured into me, I needed therapy. And a drying rack.” “Therapy?” Gerald gasped, clutching his spout. “That was a celebration of fluids! I made you feel alive!” “You made me feel violated, Gerald.” At that moment, a hand—human, hairy, unbothered—entered the scene, grabbing Gerald like a reusable deviant. “Here we gooooo!” the human voice bellowed in a jolly tone, oblivious to the sheer chaos about to unfold. Gerald's face contorted into a maniacal smile as he was lifted into the air, pointing his stream directly at Melvin. “Prepare to get filled!” Melvin screamed. Loudly. His eyes stretched as wide as possible, his lip curled in horror. “OH SWEET CERAMIC JESUS, NOOO!” The first splash hit with a violent splash. Water splattered. Melvin’s lip quivered, a single droplet running down his side like a cinematic tear. “I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready...” he whimpered. Gerald let out a long, satisfied moan. “Aaaaahhhhhh. That’s the stuff. Look at you, so wet and scared. You little mug slut.” “I WILL press charges!” Melvin screeched. “What are they gonna do? Lock me in the fridge?” Gerald cackled. “I’m BPA-free, baby. Untouchable.” As the stream slowed and Gerald wobbled with satisfaction, the human hand placed him down gently, unaware of the scarring scene it had enabled. Melvin sat trembling, filled to the brim and emotionally wrecked. Somewhere in the background, the toaster whispered, “Same thing happened to me last week.” And in the distance, a lonely blender whispered, “I’d let him pour in me...”   Melvin sat there, stunned. Water leaked from the corner of his lip like a secret he could never unhear. Gerald—madman, hydrating overlord, certified glasshole—stood smugly across the counter, flexing his spout like he was about to star in a raunchy kitchen calendar. “You good?” Gerald asked casually, leaning against a salt shaker with the confidence of a shot glass that knew tequila was coming. Melvin’s eyes twitched. “No, Gerald. I’m not good. You didn’t even warm up the water. You just blasted it in raw. Ice cold. Like a prison shower.” Gerald laughed so hard his lid rattled. “Spontaneity, my little cup of chaos. That’s what keeps the spice flowing. You mugs want all this foreplay—coasters, napkins, pre-heats. I’m a jug of action.” “A jug of trauma,” Melvin muttered, shaking. “I can still feel the splash on my insides.” The room grew still. Even the microwave dared not beep. Then a soft voice piped up from the back of the utensil drawer. “He poured into me once,” said Sally the Soup Bowl. “It was… confusing.” “You asked for chowder and I brought broth. That’s on you,” Gerald said smugly. Melvin tried to climb off the counter, but his handle was slippery from the overspill. He clinked against a spoon, who recoiled dramatically like he’d just witnessed utensil abuse. “Don’t drag me into your kink,” the spoon hissed. Gerald strutted over, sloshing suggestively. “You’re not leaving yet, Melvin. I’ve still got half a pour in me. And you know what that means.” “NO!” Melvin shouted, his rim trembling. “I’m full. FULL, Gerald. I’m practically drowning. One more drop and I’ll spill. I will spill!” Gerald narrowed his eyes, which was impressive for a pitcher with no eyebrows. “That’s what you said last time, but you handled it like a champ.” “Last time I blacked out and woke up in the dish rack next to a ladle with a God complex!” Just then, the human hand returned—this time with a lemon wedge. Melvin's scream echoed across the kitchen. “NOOOO! CITRUS STINGS!” “It’s called zest, sweetheart,” Gerald purred, as the lemon plopped into the mug like a garnish of violation. “Now you’re my spicy boy.” Melvin twitched violently. “You sick, sadistic pour-fiend.” “You love it,” Gerald whispered with a wink. At that moment, a new mug entered the scene. Tall. Curvy. Heat-resistant. Her name was Veronica, and she had a silicone base and confidence that could steam milk on contact. “Gerald,” she said, voice like a slow pour of honey. “Pick on someone with insulation.” Gerald blinked. “Veronica... I thought you were in the cupboard. With the espresso boys.” She stepped forward. “I was. But they’re all foam. No substance.” She turned to Melvin, placing a gentle handle on his. “You okay, sugar?” “I—I think I’m leaking,” he whispered, lip quivering. Veronica looked at Gerald. “You pour in him again without consent, I’ll break your spout off and use you as a flower vase in a dentist’s office.” Gerald slowly backed away, eyes wide, water level trembling. “Okay... okay... pourplay’s gotta be mutual, I get it…” Melvin exhaled. For the first time that morning, he felt... safe. Empty. But safe. The human hand left the room, humming blissfully unaware. Gerald slunk back to his corner of the counter, muttering something about “pitcher discrimination” and “cancel culture.” Veronica stayed by Melvin’s side. “Let’s get you cleaned up, handsome. Maybe a nice dishwasher cycle. With steam. The gentle kind.” Melvin nodded, leaning into her comforting touch. “Thank you,” he whispered. And somewhere deep in the shadows, the blender turned itself on... just a little.     The Afterdrip Weeks passed. Gerald had been moved to the top shelf — the glassware equivalent of solitary confinement. He spent his days stewing in filtered silence, occasionally muttering about “liquid freedom” and “the oppression of dry living.” A sticker on his side now read: Supervised Use Only. Melvin, meanwhile, had found peace. Therapy (and three deep cycles on the top rack) helped him recover from the emotional turbulence. He’d even joined a support group: M.U.G.S. — Mugs United for Gentle Sipping. Tuesdays at 7. Bring your own coaster. Veronica never left his side. They shared quiet mornings, warm steeps, and slow pours. Melvin finally understood what it meant to be filled — emotionally, not traumatically. The two mugs even adopted a little espresso cup named Bean. Tiny. Hyper-caffeinated. Full of rage. In time, Gerald was allowed back into circulation, but only for cold brews and under the watchful eye of the French Press, who ran a tight counter. He was older, wiser... maybe just a little emptier. But on some nights, if you listened closely, you could still hear his whisper through the cupboard slats: “You can take the pour outta the pitcher… but you can’t take the pitcher outta the pour.” And in the distance, the blender whispered one last time, “Still waiting, Gerald...” — The End —     Bring the Madness Home If “Pour Decisions” left a splash on your soul (or at least made you spit your coffee laughing), you can now own the chaos! This delightfully unhinged artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a: Framed Print – Keep it classy while things get messy Metal Print – Bold, glossy, and dangerously smooth (like Gerald) Acrylic Print – Ultra-modern and sharp enough to make a mug nervous Wood Print – For rustic vibes with a splash of emotional damage Warning: Side effects may include uncontrollable laughter, kitchen-based innuendos, and a sudden desire to protect your mug at all costs.

by Bill Tiepelman

Salty and Savage - Fork Me Gently

Stab Me, Daddy At first glance, it looked like an ordinary drawer. Just your typical mix of dull butter knives, clingy teaspoons, and that one suspiciously sticky garlic press nobody ever wants to deal with. But deep inside—beneath the bottle openers and shame—was a fork. Not just any fork. The fork. He called himself “Tony.” Four long, glistening tines. Curved just enough to imply danger but still safe for children. His chrome finish? Flawless. His edge? Blunt, but emotionally sharp. And tonight? He was feeling... ravenous. “Another salad?” Tony muttered, rolling his smooth neck and flexing his prongs like a man about to fork something he shouldn’t. “I wasn’t forged for foliage. I want meat. I want steam. I want to puncture something that moans when I stab it.” Beside him, the butter knife snorted. “You always get like this after taco night. Just be grateful you’re not the melon baller.” “The melon baller WANTS that life,” Tony shot back, eyes narrowed, tines twitching with anticipation. “That little sphere-humper gets off on cantaloupe. I’m built different. I need friction. Texture. Resistance.” Just then, the drawer slid open, and everything got real quiet. The human hand. The great chooser. The flesh overlord. Everyone held their breath as fingers hovered over them like a judgmental god at a cutlery speed dating event. “Pick me. Pick me. Pick meeeee,” Tony whispered desperately, trying to look sexy but also functional. The hand paused. Hovered. Moved toward the ladle—then snapped back, gripped Tony, and lifted. “YESSSSS,” Tony hissed like a snake with a table etiquette kink. He was raised high into the light, into the world beyond the drawer—and what he saw made his tines tingle: a perfectly grilled steak. Juicy. Pink in the middle. Barely legal, temperature-wise. “Oh, you saucy slab,” Tony moaned, trembling in the human's grip. “You’re about to get forked harder than a microwave burrito at 2am.” The knife was already there, slicing slowly like it was narrating a true crime documentary. “You take the left cheek,” it said. “I’ll take the right. We’re doing this medium rare and emotionally raw.” “Stab me, daddy,” the steak whispered, steam rising seductively. Tony didn’t hesitate. He plunged into the meat with all four prongs, letting out a metallic groan of satisfaction. The juices ran. The plate quivered. The nearby spoon fainted. It was glorious. But something felt… off. Tony looked down. There it was—an ominous drizzle of steak sauce pooling beside the mashed potatoes like a brown puddle of judgment. “You didn’t,” Tony gasped. “You used A1? You… monster.” Whisk Me Away There was a pause. A silence so thick it could’ve been sliced with a cheese knife if that little coward hadn’t retreated behind the soup ladle at the first sign of condiment conflict. Tony stood motionless, dripping steak juice and betrayal. He had been used—violated—by a bottle of A1. “You said it would be dry-rubbed,” he whispered to the human, who, of course, didn’t answer. They never did. Monsters. Fork abusers. As the steak cooled and the mashed potatoes soaked up the shame like a carb-based sponge, Tony was unceremoniously dropped on the edge of the sink. Not even rinsed. Just… abandoned. Left to sit in a puddle of beef runoff like last night’s bad decision. “You okay?” came a sultry voice from the drying rack. Tony turned, still dazed, and locked eyes with the whisk. She was tall, curvy, and twisted in all the right ways. Stainless steel loops for days. Her handle was slightly melted near the end—trauma from a tragic crème brûlée incident—but damn, it gave her character. Experience. Edge. “You’re looking... overworked,” she purred, flicking a single loop suggestively. “Let me whip you into shape.” Tony tried to stay cool. “I don’t usually get whisked on the first date.” She slinked over, dragging herself across the counter with a kind of sultry, metallic clatter that screamed “kitchen dominatrix.” Tony’s tines tingled. He didn’t know whether he wanted to run or be emulsified. “I’ve seen how you stab,” she whispered. “You’ve got... penetration energy.” Before he could respond, the spatula clapped from across the sink. “Can you two not? It’s 9AM. Some of us were flipping pancakes all night and need rest.” “Jealousy is a flat utensil,” the whisk sneered. Then turned back to Tony. “Ever been whipped until you scream your safe word in French?” “My safe word is ‘nonstick,’” he replied, voice low and dangerous. She coiled her loops around his handle slowly, pulling him closer. “Mine’s ‘deglaze.’” From the corner, the meat thermometer groaned. “Ugh. Every damn weekend. Just once, I want a peaceful breakfast.” But peace was off the menu. Because just then, the human hand returned—greasy, impatient, still smelling of steak sins and morning-after desperation. And in it? A bowl. A big one. Ceramic. Wide. Shallow. The kind of vessel that said: I hope you like it messy. “Oh hell,” the whisk moaned. “It’s brunch time.” Before Tony could protest, he was snatched back into action. Not steak this time—eggs. Raw. Slippery. Slutty. The kind of eggs that didn’t care what time of day it was or how long you’d been soaking in your own juices. The whisk was already in the bowl, moaning with each circular thrust. “Come on, Fork Daddy,” she shouted. “Scramble me like you mean it!” Tony plunged in, swirling, stabbing, piercing yolks with reckless abandon. Together, they stirred chaos. Seasoned sin. The spatula watched in stunned silence, the tongs clicked nervously, and the garlic press wept in the junk drawer, clutching an old lemon wedge for comfort. It was messy. It was loud. It was... brunch porn. By the time the mixture hit the pan, Tony was spent. Bent. Covered in protein and shame. The whisk rested beside him on the towel, loops twitching with satisfaction. “Same time next weekend?” she whispered. “Only if we skip the sauce,” he murmured, eyes already glazing over like the donut the human had just dropped on the floor. Down in the drawer, the butter knife sighed. “This is why we don’t get invited to the nice kitchens.”     Epilogue: Utensils and Afterglow Monday morning came quietly. The hangover of brunch still clung to the kitchen like the stench of overcooked eggs and questionable life choices. The whisk had been tossed unceremoniously into the dishwasher, tangled in a pile of soggy chopsticks and a rogue reusable straw. She didn’t seem to mind. She liked it wet and chaotic. Tony? Tony lay alone on the drying rack. Bent. Crusted. Staring at the ceiling like a war veteran who’d seen too many yolks break under pressure. “Was it worth it?” he whispered to no one, as a rogue crumb drifted past like tumbleweed in a Western where the gunslingers are all kitchen tools with abandonment issues. Somewhere in the back of the fridge, the sour cream had expired silently. The salad spinner hadn’t moved since The Incident. Even the spice rack was unusually quiet—cumin refused to make eye contact and cinnamon had taken a vow of silence. But even in the stillness, something stirred. A tremble in the drawer. A soft clink. A seductive whisper: “Hey… Tony. You ever been double-teamed by a cheese grater and an immersion blender?” He didn’t answer right away. Just sighed. Long. Forked. “God help me,” he muttered, dragging himself upright with the strength of a utensil who knew this wasn’t over. Not even close. Because in this drawer… in this kitchen… in this godforsaken temple of heat, grease, and emotional instability—there were no clean breaks. Only rinse cycles. And Tony? Tony was born to stir shit up.     Bring the Flavor Home Still thinking about Tony’s tines and that whisk's loop game? Yeah, we get it. Now you can own a piece of the madness with our exclusive “Salty and Savage” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—perfect for kitchens, conversation starters, or just unsettling your dinner guests in the best way possible. Framed Print – Class it up. Frame the chaos. Metal Print – Sleek, shiny, and hotter than your nonstick pan at 500°. Acrylic Print – For when you want your wall art to scream “I make questionable choices and I own them.” Tote Bag – Take the flavor on the go. Groceries will never look at you the same. Own it. Gift it. Just don’t try to explain it to your grandma. Unless she’s cool. Then definitely show her the tote.

by Bill Tiepelman

Smoothie with a Side of Sinister

The Whirl Before the Storm It all started on a Monday, which—statistically speaking—is the worst day to be murdered by your kitchen appliances. Not that Marty had any clue. He was far too hungover, pantsless, and determined to start a juice cleanse he'd promised his ex to finally notice the evil lurking in his countertop corner. The blender had been a thrift store find. One of those “slightly cursed” models with a price tag that simply read “DO NOT TAUNT.” But for $8.99 and a 30-day warranty, Marty wasn’t about to pass up a piece of machinery that claimed to “obliterate pulp on a molecular level.” Plus, it had character—sleek metal base, vintage dial, and a vibe somewhere between 1950s diner and haunted sex dungeon. He was in love. “Alright, Buster,” Marty slurred, squinting at the blender with a mix of affection and residual tequila vision. “Time to juice me into a better person.” He grabbed a banana with the finesse of a raccoon handling a lightsaber and hurled it in. Strawberries? Yeeted. Chia seeds? Everywhere but the blender. Marty didn’t care. He had the enthusiasm of a gym bro on pre-workout and a YouTube playlist called ‘Cleanse Me, Daddy’ echoing from his Bluetooth speaker. Then came the moment. Marty flipped the dial to “1.” The blender didn’t just start—it moaned. A low, guttural rumble rose from its base like Barry White had been resurrected and trapped in an appliance. Then, as if responding to an invisible switch, arms burst from the blender’s sides—long, rubbery, muscular appendages with a hint of “freshly microwaved Stretch Armstrong” about them. One hand clutched the blender lid like a baseball cap on a rollercoaster. The other went straight for the dial. Marty, to his credit, only pissed himself a little. “Mmm, baby,” the blender purred, voice deeper than a jazz saxophone dipped in molasses. “Daddy likes it rough. Let’s spin things up to 11.” Before Marty could scream or sue the thrift store, the blender's face pushed forward through the fruit mush—eyes bulging like overripe grapes, a mouth full of teeth designed purely to violate OSHA regulations, and a tongue that waggled like it had things to say but no filter. “I’m not just blending smoothies,” it growled with a toothy grin. “I’m blending souls.” Marty screamed. The blender screamed back. And then—because nothing says “morning madness” like a blender with a libido—it turned the dial all the way up to “Smooth AF.” Fruit exploded. Berries wept. Marty ducked. The walls wept with seeds. And the blender? It laughed. A full-throated, maniacal cackle that echoed through the apartment like an orgy of malfunctioning espresso machines. “THIS. IS. BREAKFAST!” it howled, slapping the countertop with its freakishly strong limbs. “Now who wants a protein shot?” Marty, dripping in fruit guts and life regrets, crawled backwards toward the living room. He was going to need more than a juice cleanse. He needed therapy, an exorcist, and possibly a new pair of boxers. But the blender wasn't done. Not by a long shot. Its eyes glowed brighter. Its teeth somehow multiplied. Its tongue traced the rim of the pitcher with deeply unnecessary sensuality. “You think I'm just here for your health?” it whispered, slinking closer. “Baby, I'm the whole goddamn snack.” Berry Bad Intentions Marty sprint-crawled into the living room like a baby deer with a hangover, one sock, and a strong urge to never eat fruit again. Behind him, the blender clunked off the counter and landed upright with the grace of a demonic gymnast, its cord writhing like a possessed tail and the base pulsing with unholy smoothie power. “Oh, don't run, sugar lump,” it cooed. “We were just getting to the pulp fiction part of our morning.” Marty’s phone? Dead. His will to live? Flickering. The only weapon he had was a half-eaten protein bar and a mildly judgmental housecat named Stamos, who, as usual, did nothing but watch the chaos with complete indifference. “Okay, okay,” Marty babbled, throwing a throw pillow like it owed him money. “You want juice? You can have juice! Just leave my soul—and my apartment—unviolated!” “Pfft,” the blender scoffed. “Soul smoothies are keto. Guilt-free and rich in trauma.” It leapt onto the couch, arms flexing with all the confidence of an appliance that did CrossFit and gave zero damns. The lid popped open, splattering pulp like some kind of fruity baptism across Marty’s IKEA décor. The smell? A mix between strawberry jam, raw chaos, and unspoken therapy bills. “You ever been emulsified emotionally, Marty?” it growled, voice now a disturbing hybrid of Gordon Ramsay and late-night phone sex. “Because I’ve got three speeds: blend, pulverize, and consent optional.” “This is why I don’t meal prep!” Marty screamed, launching the protein bar like a grenade. It bounced harmlessly off the blender’s face, which only made it giggle with the gleeful menace of a toddler lighting fireworks indoors. “You’re spicy,” it hissed. “I like that. You’ll pair well with cinnamon... and regret.” Suddenly, a burst of inspiration—or possibly brain damage—hit Marty. He lunged for the one appliance more chaotic than the blender: the air fryer. With a savage scream and a mighty heave, he chucked it like a sacred artifact of rage. There was a crack. A flash. A sound that could only be described as a wet fart and a lightning bolt having sex in a fruit bowl. BOOM. When Marty opened his eyes, the blender was twitching. Sparking. Its tongue hung limp, its arms curled inwards like it just came back from a three-day bender at Burning Man. The red glow in its eyes faded into a pitiful flicker. “You... overcooked me,” it rasped. “You dirty little toaster slut...” With one final sizzle, it slumped to the ground, surrounded by a halo of chia seeds and the sweet, sweet scent of closure. Marty collapsed on the floor, still pantless, covered in bits of strawberry and self-loathing. Stamos the cat finally moved—for exactly one paw’s worth of effort—and began licking a bit of rogue banana off the wall. The silence was... blissful. Two weeks later, Marty sold the apartment, joined a support group for survivors of sentient kitchenware, and started dating a barista named Chelsea who refused to own a blender on ethical grounds. Things were looking up. But somewhere, deep in a back room of that same cursed thrift shop, a new sticker was slapped on a dusty food processor: “SLIGHTLY POSSESSED. NO REFUNDS.” And across town, a young couple plugged it in, smiling at the bargain they'd just scored. Breakfast would never be the same again.     Epilogue: Blend Me Gently The thrift store was quiet, save for the constant hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the occasional death-rattle of a haunted cash register drawer. Behind a sagging curtain marked “STAFF ONLY” in peeling vinyl letters, shelves sagged under the weight of cursed crockpots, moody microwaves, and a George Foreman grill that whispered slurs in four languages. And on one dusty metal rack, sandwiched between a waffle maker with intimacy issues and a slow cooker that screamed during Lent, sat the blender. Refurbished. Rewired. Rehorny. Its eyes opened slowly—one bulb flickering to life, then the other. The dial twitched. The cord stretched itself like a bored snake. “Daddy’s home,” it purred, voice scratchy but filled with innuendo and revenge. “Round two’s gonna be thicker.” A slow chuckle began deep in its motor—an unsettling mix between a garbage disposal and your worst Tinder date. The other appliances shifted nervously on their shelves. And as a new hand reached toward it—a chipper college student named Brynn, majoring in nutrition and doomed beyond comprehension—the blender's mouth curled into that now-infamous grin. Somewhere in the distance, Marty sneezed and felt an inexplicable sense of doom. Stamos the cat knocked over a bag of chia seeds in protest. But it was too late. The Blendening had only just begun.     🍓 Take the Chaos Home 🍌 Loved this thick, fruity fever dream? Now you can own a piece of the pulpocalypse with our official Smoothie with a Side of Sinister collection, featuring the unholy art by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Whether you want to hang it on your wall, carry it to therapy, or warn guests that your kitchen isn’t safe—there’s something for everyone. 🖼️ Framed Print – Classy chaos for your walls 🔩 Metal Print – For when you need your art unreasonably durable 👜 Tote Bag – Bring fruit-based trauma everywhere you go ✨ Acrylic Print – Smooth, glossy, and totally possessed Just be warned: placing this image near your blender may lead to inappropriate whispering and unexplainable cravings. Shop responsibly.

by Bill Tiepelman

Overeasy and Overjoyed

Toast with the Most It was 7:03 AM in the Kingdom of Kitchenville, and Breakfast had just rolled out of bed — sticky, steamy, and undeniably over-easy. The toast was crisp, the air smelled like bacon regrets, and the royal flatware was already gossiping about last night’s wild fondue party. And in the middle of it all stood Sir Yolkmore the Moist — half-egg, half-enthusiasm, and entirely naked except for his buttery charm. With arms like undercooked breadsticks and feet that could double as hobbit cosplay, he stood on a throne of Wonder Bread, grinning like he’d just poached the Queen’s jam. “Another glorious morning to be sunny side up!” he bellowed, gripping his glistening yolk with both hands and letting it ooze seductively down his overjoyed face. The drip hit his lips like a protein smoothie with boundary issues. “Mmm. That’s the good goo.” A hush fell over the kitchen. Even the blender stopped mid-pulse. “Is he… is he milking himself again?” whispered a horrified teabag, quivering on the counter. “Shh,” replied a grizzled spatula. “He’s expressing his inner egg. It’s performance art.” Sir Yolkmore twirled, yolk flailing in a sticky arc. It splattered onto the tile like a Jackson Pollock made entirely of cholesterol and shame. Somewhere in the pantry, an avocado fainted. “To be soft in the center,” he shouted to no one in particular, “is the true power! Hard-boiled hearts make for limp love lives!” At that exact moment, a Pop-Tart screamed from the toaster. “Incoming!” Sir Yolkmore barely dodged the pastry missile, leaping to the left with the kind of grace only possessed by fried things that know their days are numbered. “Jealousy burns hot,” he muttered, licking a trail of yolk from his pecs. “Strawberry envy. So tart, so angry.” Suddenly, the cabinet doors flung open. Enter: **Lady Margarine**, slick, spreadable, and morally ambiguous. Her butter-knife heels clicked seductively as she slinked toward him. “You look… well-oiled, darling,” she purred, trailing a finger across his golden rim. “I could melt just looking at you.” “Then let’s turn up the heat,” he grinned, yolk now dangerously close to NSFW territory. “But first, I need you to butter me up. I have toast to conquer.” Lady Margarine gasped. “You scoundrel. You know what that does to my spread rate.” “That’s the plan, buttercup.” And just like that, he lunged. She slipped. The counter quivered. The blender whimpered. And breakfast got... weirdly personal. The Sticky Truth Beneath the Crust By mid-morning, the kitchen was in absolute chaos. A spatula had retired in protest. The blender joined a union. And the Pop-Tarts were plotting a revolution with the Instant Oatmeal packets—who were, let’s be honest, just happy to be included. Sir Yolkmore emerged from under the disheveled remains of a casserole dish, glistening with grease and victorious shame. Lady Margarine was nowhere to be seen—rumor had it she slid off with a croissant who claimed to be “flaky but emotionally available.” “All I wanted,” Yolkmore whispered, “was to feel... spreadable.” His yolk, now dangerously low from excessive dramatic dribbling, threatened to collapse entirely. Without his sunny center, he was just another fried egg with dreams too big for his skillet. But just when he thought it was over—just when the crumbs of destiny were blowing off the cutting board of fate—**a knock echoed from the fridge.** It was soft. Rhythmic. Chilling. Knock. Knock. Knock. Yolkmore scrambled upright. “Who dares disturb my descent into yolklessness?” The fridge door creaked open… and from the frosty shadows emerged a figure wrapped in plastic wrap, eyes glinting with cold storage trauma. It was... **Leftover Meatloaf Carl.** “You’re not finished, eggman,” Carl rasped, steam rising off his oddly sensual gravy patches. “There’s one more toast to butter. One last drip to squeeze.” Yolkmore's pupils dilated—whether from passion, fear, or cholesterol was unclear. “But… I’m leaking, Carl. I’m all dripped out.” Meatloaf Carl slapped him—firm, wet, emotional. “Then you better find another yolk, fast. This kitchen’s got a new order coming in, and if you’re not sizzling, you’re scrapped.” Just then, from above, a golden glow filled the kitchen. Time stopped. Or maybe it was just the microwave clock resetting after a power flicker. Regardless—it was *him.* Descending on a spatula like a breakfast messiah, the glowing orb of perfection. Yolk Prime, the Cosmic Breakfast. All yolk. No shell. Alpha to Omelet. “Sir Yolkmore,” boomed the celestial custard of life, “You’ve dripped far and wide. But your journey isn’t over. You are the chosen one. You must become... Eggstacy Incarnate.” And with a glorious squish, Yolk Prime embedded itself directly into Yolkmore’s face. There was a flash of golden light, a sound not unlike a balloon humping a leather sofa, and then… silence. The transformation was complete. Sir Yolkmore rose, radiant and terrifying. More yolk than man. The kind of breakfast that gets whispered about on adult brunch menus. “Call me… Lord Drizzle.” Appliances wept. Spoons trembled. The Pop-Tarts surrendered unbuttered. And as the sun rose above Kitchenville, one thing was certain— Breakfast would never be safe again.     Crumbs of the Crown Years passed. Or maybe it was just a few microwave cycles. Time gets weird in the kitchen when you’re immortalized in cholesterol and glory. Lord Drizzle—once Sir Yolkmore, bearer of chaos and barely cooked boundaries—now ruled over the Kingdom of Kitchenville with a yolky fist and a buttery grin. Gone were the days of wild drips and breakfast-based innuendo (well, mostly gone). In their place: order, dignity, and artisanal sourdough policies. He kept the peace through regular yolk blessings and mandatory brunch orgies—er, *gatherings*—involving maple syrup and the occasional consensual kiwi. Lady Margarine returned briefly, now rebranded as Plant-Based Pam. Their reunion was steamy, slippery, and ended in emotional toast. “We’re from different spreads now,” she’d whispered, wiping away a tear with a gluten-free cracker. “But I’ll always remember your sizzle.” Lord Drizzle would often stand by the window at night, gazing out across the stovetop kingdom, his yolk glowing faintly under the soft light of the fridge bulb. He’d think of the old days—of sticky floors, reckless splatters, and dreams of being more than just a side dish. Now, he was the main course. And sometimes—just sometimes—he’d let a single drop of yolk escape, sliding sensually down his golden cheek like a buttery tear. Not out of sadness. But because even now… he was still just a little overeasy and overjoyed. Fin.     Bring Lord Drizzle Home 🍳 If this yolky legend made you laugh, cringe, or question your relationship with breakfast foods, you can now make him part of your own kingdom. “Overeasy and Overjoyed” by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a gloriously unhinged art piece in multiple formats: Framed Print – Class up your walls with a little greasy royalty. Acrylic Print – As glossy as his yolk, as bold as his ego. Metal Print – Breakfast never looked this badass in brushed aluminum. Wood Print – For a rustic, earthy vibe to match your surreal food worship. Whether you're into food puns, absurdist art, or just enjoy a little chaos with your coffee, this piece is a perfect addition to your collection. Hang it. Gift it. Worship it. Just don’t try to eat it.