I’ll repeat that: A COFFEE TABLE BOOK ON THE HOLOCAUST.
Who the fuck leaves that lying around? I mean really…what conversations are you starting with that book?
“Speaking of your new gas-grill, you’ll never guess how my grandfather died.”
I’ve begun working on an idea for my house: a coffee table designed strictly to make guests feel uncomfortable. The Holocaust book is first on the list. What else would be on the table? I’m glad you asked.
First of all, there’s the matter of the table itself. I figure the only way to do things right would be get one of the glass top display cases, so I could keep objects in plain view. You know, just your usual conversation pieces: a human hand, a pile of jagged pebbles marked “kidney stones,” and maybe one or two pig fetuses floating in formaldehyde.
No coffee table is complete without some sort of candy…at least, that’s what I’ve come to believe based on all the old people I’ve met. And they seem to be the only ones who have coffee tables, so I tend to believe that for the first time ever, old people know what they’re doing. And I have just the thing for uncomfortable candy.
A few years ago, a friend of mine gave me a recipe for home-made toffee sucking-candy. I did my best to follow the directions, and when I finished, I had some pretty decent looking treats. I held my nose and popped one in mouth, fully expecting to keel over dead instantly. But it actually tasted pretty good. Just as I was getting hopeful that I might not be a complete bust as a desert-maker however, I sank my teeth down and tried to bite the thing in half. Big mistake. Turns out that I had created some sort of caramel-tasting crazy glue. The thing bonded with my teeth like whores on Charlie Sheen. My jaw was instantly locked shut. I couldn’t even pry it apart with my hands. It was ten minutes before the candy dissolved and I was free to resume all those fun activities like speaking and eating solid foods.
A lot of people would have been discouraged by the beast that I'd created. I wasn’t. The first thing I did was put the candies out on the kitchen counter and wait for my roommates to come home. I figure I’d have to have a bowl full of these babies on my coffee table.
It seems like a good place for pictures too. So I’ll want an 8”x12” framed color portrait of my cock. No explanation, just proudly and unavoidably staring right into the face of company. In fact, maybe I should just swipe some of the pictures they used to scare me back in Sex-Ed and make a photo album. I can see it now: my guests, already out of sorts from the pig fetus whose eye seems to be following them about the room, reach for the untitled leather album in a vain attempt to strike up a conversation. Then they open it up, and, because I’m staring right at them, feel compelled to cover their horror and make some sort of comment.
“So…that’s Chlamydia looks like.”
One can only image what the rest of my house will be like. “Don’t worry, mom. We can have Thanksgiving at my house this year.”
2 comments:
this posting was awesome. laugh out loud funny. :-)
I don't know about fetuseseses but i might be able to get you a pigs skull, we have one. You might have to pry off some of the flesh yourself, but its already been baked (it smells a bit odd though, picture crisco saturated baked goods, bacon, and rotting flesh). But on the plus side you get a nifty pigs snout that you can put in a jar full of denatured alcohol solvent, and i'm sure that would be a welcome addition to the table.
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