Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Cruelty exposed. RIGINAL.

by riginal (writer), moe australia, April 14, 2014

The horrendous life of Harold... Thin- skinned Harold aimed for a life above the daily grind.


I had just cooked an egg and a sausage. Garnished/separated the 'odd couple' with a stick of celery to stop the egg from running into my sausage. Or maybe to stop my sausage from rolling into my egg. I suppose you could say the celery was a peace-keeper of sorts. I mean look at the fare itself. The layer of the egg (name withheld) at worst, ended up with maybe a sore bottom if the egg was an overly large one. The sausage however, (name withheld as it was dealt a bum wrap...though rumor had it it was a known skinhead?) was the end result of predetermined premeditated deliberate butchery. I suddenly felt an immense sympathy for the sausage that almost CERTAINLY came from a saw/sawn behind. The sausage had not done anyone any harm. I felt for my sausage.

The egg was getting cold. The celery stick was stuck up, getting stickier by the minute. The impatient uncaring cold -blooded egg was trying to run over the unfortunate sausage with the intent of giving it the cold shoulder- choking it-seemed to me.

My sausage wasn't big. It had a cute curl and was well- mannered. I pricked it. It didn't grizzle. Sure! it had the right to be browned off. It hadn't been to sausage prep school. Hadn't been to any school. No correspondence course in any of the major ivy -league business schools for up- and- coming sausages. It didn't have a mobile in case it slipped on a wayward skid pan and needed urgent medical help. Come to think of it it didn't even have time to register for 'You silly sausage' O'Bama care! A basic right for any silly sausage.

The celery stick was getting jealous and green with envy because of the attention the sausage was getting. It snapped and said something rude like "eat me egg head" so I ate the celery encrusted egg. Or was it the other yolk around? I didn't really care because the sausage dominated my being.

I felt its pulse. Remarkably it was still breathing. I quickly wrapped it in warm foil and it smiled with gratitude. I placed the recovered sausage in the freezer and told it that I would defrost it in the morning first thing. Dress it up in a neat suit and tie and do my best to enroll it in a reputable business school to give it an education enabling it to perhaps lead a better more productive life. My frozen to be sausage, smiled.

So there we were on graduation day. My proud sausage, Harold, was now a useful member of sausagee...sorry, society. It cost me a lot of money to put that sausage through college but I didn't care. Between us we would make meat ends or vice-versa.

Getting a job for Harold was a nightmare. No-one was hiring sausages with a degree in skincare. I thought,to hell with this. I rang the White-House 'equal sausage opportunity board.' A pleasant young lady asked how big and intelligent my trained degree/degreased sausage was because she said that they did have room in the lower upper house for a thin-skinned intelligent sausage with 'skincare' training. I laid my sausage on my mobile. Harold spoke calmly,"Hi! my name is Harold...i'm thin-skinned could I drop my full resume in and chew the fat as to my suitability for a thin position in your splendid company and yes I have recently registered as a member of the silly sausage OBama cover and yes I have a well- rounded browned off education."

My sausage just wouldn't sit still, so excited Harold was that he couldn't tie his shoelaces for the big thin interview. " must impress. There's at least 500 other half-baked silly sausages in the White-House who abhor new young intelligent sausages rolling in on their turf. That's why I've dressed you down in a studied grey sombre light pin- striped suit with a left -over celery stick bow tie...and pink tap dancing shoes." I rang for a taxi.

We alighted. I held my sausage's hand but Harold pulled away. "Look, i'm a groan up newly ground up sausage...I can fry on my own to walk thanks all the same." I had no sooner let my sausage go when a car screeched up...ran over the top of Harold!

A Mr Briden alighted. I was devastated! "Sir! you ran over my sausage!" I screamed in anguish. Mr B retorted angrily. "So I HIT A BIT OF A SNAG!" He shouted. "Suffer! it happens all the time here!"

The next time you go to bite a sausage please say a pray for Harold. He died yesterday in 'intensive a cute' silly sausage care. He was in an induced coma...they had to turn his celery life support off. Which, when you think about what goes on in the power house of the nation at "hands up" time is probably par for the course. Anyway I guess it's no good crying over split sausages...specially if you're thin-skinned.

The reason I wrote this post is because I'm giving away a pair of pink tap- dancing sausage shoes, size 8. So please, before you 8 your sausage tonight if your snag can fit into a politician's thin recollection of past events then please stand fry.

Ring sizzle hot bang browned off 8 and ask to speak to Slim. If you hit a snag on the way through then you should be arrested. Sausages have feelings too you know.


About the Writer

Bio...bioio...daylight come an i wanna go home. Come missa tele man tele me banana. A banana tele? Seriously would like to hook up with other comedy writers to engage.
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