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.
