Post by Merylwen on Feb 22, 2010 11:04:35 GMT -5
I did this for a class and recently rediscovered it. We had just finished reading "Paradise Lost" and other morality stories and my professor asked us all to write our own. Here is mine.
Ignatius Kohler was a man about to die.
However, he did not know this, and thought perhaps a sandwich would be nice.
Some men found their god in the mountains, others in silent prayer. Ignatius Kohler found his by moving the head of lettuce in his refrigerator slightly to the left.
God looked a bit like squeezable mustard.
“Greetings!” The mustard bottle said, its little yellow cap wobbling disturbingly. “I am Generic Yellow Mustard, your god. It has become time for me to judge you and decide whether or not you will come to heaven with me.”
“Er…” Ignatius intoned questioningly.
“I am here to show you, how throughout your life, you have sinned,” continued Generic Yellow, the mustard bottle god. “This is the day when you will find out how.”
“Somehow I thought religion meant you know the sins beforehand,” Ignatius muttered, mesmerized though he was.
The mustard bottle ignored Ignatius’ aside and gave the general idea of someone attempting to wave a non-existent hand. “If Brother Tomato will come forth, we will begin our exercise in judgement.”
The crisper at the bottom of Ignatius’ refrigerator popped open and a pleasantly plump and ripe tomato popped out. “I am cake,” the tomato said in a high-pitched voice.
“No you’re not,” Ignatius said, knowing full well that tomatoes were not cakes. He did not generally put a slice of cake on a ham sandwich for one.
“For the purposes of this exercise I am cake,” the tomato said reproachfully.
“Ok, you can represent cake, but you certainly aren’t cake,” Ignatius conceded.
The tomato somehow looked smug without ever having a facial feature. “Right,” it continued. “Where were we? Ah yes, cake.”
“In Generic Yellow Mustardism, cake is expressly forbidden on Wednesdays, unless of course, the Wednesday happens to coincide with some special occasion, such as a birthday.
“When you were five, you ate a piece of leftover birthday cake on a Wednesday, which the great god Generic Yellow mustard made you vomit up repeatedly. Subsequently, you have not touched cake on Wednesday or any other day. In this sin, you are clear, as it is obvious you learned your lesson.”
“I…” Ignatius said, but lost his train of though when the tomato disappeared once more into the crisper.
The mustard bottle nodded its plastic nub cover sagely. “Brother Tomato has spoken well for you. You are sinless in my eyes. However, we shall see what Brother Sliced Turkey Luncheon Meat has to say for you.”
To his somewhat dazed disturbance, Ignatius saw the deli meat drawer slide open and a packet of sliced turkey popped out.
“I am Lies. And don’t argue, it’s easier to say than Sliced Turkey Luncheon Meat in a pinch,” the meat said, apparently having heard Ignatius’ conversation with Brother Tomato and/or Cake earlier.
“Lies in the church of Generic Yellow Mustard are never to be less than two minutes long, and you, Ignatius, are a sinner in the first degree over this one holy law alone. Just think back to your youth. Here’s a prime example: ‘I swear I didn’t do it.’ Mere seconds long. Shame on you, sinner.”
With a crackle of plastic, Lies disappeared back into the deli drawer.
The mustard bottle somehow contrived to look grave. “Oh, Ignatius. I thought you were going to be one of the few who made it into the heavenly circle with me and all the other condiments of light and truth. But, there is hope yet. You have one last chance. Brother Provolone Cheese, step forward and make your case.”
The deli drawer once again opened, and a slice of somewhat crusty and rather ancient provolone cheese popped out. It said in a wheezy voice, “My name is Ritualistic Killing of All Virgins Over the Age of 18, but you may call me 18.
“I am afraid to report that you have somehow completely ignored this rule altogether, failing to kill a single virgin over the age of 18. You yourself reached the age of…”
“My sex life has nothing to do with religion, thank you very much,” Ignatius said primly.
The cheese wilted a little, which wasn’t hard to do, as it seemed to be melting outside of its deli-drawer home. “What you say is true, young man,” the cheese replied.
“However, it was your duty to kill all virgins who reached the age of 18, and you did not. I’m afraid that two out of three is a d**ning offence.”
18 returned to his drawer and slammed it shut behind him.
“Brother Provolone Cheese is quite right. You have broken two of the three parts of the holy writ. I’m afraid that you will be d**ned. I am sorry to say so.”
That said, the mustard bottle ceased to move, and in fact fell over in the back of Ignatius’ refrigerator, lying prone where it fell.
Ignatius Kohler blinked a few times, then closed the refrigerator gingerly, lest some other piece of food chastise him.
“I don’t think I want a sandwich anymore,” were Ignatius’ last words, though if you want to be technical, “Arrgh” could be counted as his very last word.
Ignatius Kohler died and indeed was d**ned to a Generic Yellow Mustard Hell, where no sandwiches were ever eaten.
Somehow, Ignatius Kohler was okay with that.
Ignatius Kohler was a man about to die.
However, he did not know this, and thought perhaps a sandwich would be nice.
Some men found their god in the mountains, others in silent prayer. Ignatius Kohler found his by moving the head of lettuce in his refrigerator slightly to the left.
God looked a bit like squeezable mustard.
“Greetings!” The mustard bottle said, its little yellow cap wobbling disturbingly. “I am Generic Yellow Mustard, your god. It has become time for me to judge you and decide whether or not you will come to heaven with me.”
“Er…” Ignatius intoned questioningly.
“I am here to show you, how throughout your life, you have sinned,” continued Generic Yellow, the mustard bottle god. “This is the day when you will find out how.”
“Somehow I thought religion meant you know the sins beforehand,” Ignatius muttered, mesmerized though he was.
The mustard bottle ignored Ignatius’ aside and gave the general idea of someone attempting to wave a non-existent hand. “If Brother Tomato will come forth, we will begin our exercise in judgement.”
The crisper at the bottom of Ignatius’ refrigerator popped open and a pleasantly plump and ripe tomato popped out. “I am cake,” the tomato said in a high-pitched voice.
“No you’re not,” Ignatius said, knowing full well that tomatoes were not cakes. He did not generally put a slice of cake on a ham sandwich for one.
“For the purposes of this exercise I am cake,” the tomato said reproachfully.
“Ok, you can represent cake, but you certainly aren’t cake,” Ignatius conceded.
The tomato somehow looked smug without ever having a facial feature. “Right,” it continued. “Where were we? Ah yes, cake.”
“In Generic Yellow Mustardism, cake is expressly forbidden on Wednesdays, unless of course, the Wednesday happens to coincide with some special occasion, such as a birthday.
“When you were five, you ate a piece of leftover birthday cake on a Wednesday, which the great god Generic Yellow mustard made you vomit up repeatedly. Subsequently, you have not touched cake on Wednesday or any other day. In this sin, you are clear, as it is obvious you learned your lesson.”
“I…” Ignatius said, but lost his train of though when the tomato disappeared once more into the crisper.
The mustard bottle nodded its plastic nub cover sagely. “Brother Tomato has spoken well for you. You are sinless in my eyes. However, we shall see what Brother Sliced Turkey Luncheon Meat has to say for you.”
To his somewhat dazed disturbance, Ignatius saw the deli meat drawer slide open and a packet of sliced turkey popped out.
“I am Lies. And don’t argue, it’s easier to say than Sliced Turkey Luncheon Meat in a pinch,” the meat said, apparently having heard Ignatius’ conversation with Brother Tomato and/or Cake earlier.
“Lies in the church of Generic Yellow Mustard are never to be less than two minutes long, and you, Ignatius, are a sinner in the first degree over this one holy law alone. Just think back to your youth. Here’s a prime example: ‘I swear I didn’t do it.’ Mere seconds long. Shame on you, sinner.”
With a crackle of plastic, Lies disappeared back into the deli drawer.
The mustard bottle somehow contrived to look grave. “Oh, Ignatius. I thought you were going to be one of the few who made it into the heavenly circle with me and all the other condiments of light and truth. But, there is hope yet. You have one last chance. Brother Provolone Cheese, step forward and make your case.”
The deli drawer once again opened, and a slice of somewhat crusty and rather ancient provolone cheese popped out. It said in a wheezy voice, “My name is Ritualistic Killing of All Virgins Over the Age of 18, but you may call me 18.
“I am afraid to report that you have somehow completely ignored this rule altogether, failing to kill a single virgin over the age of 18. You yourself reached the age of…”
“My sex life has nothing to do with religion, thank you very much,” Ignatius said primly.
The cheese wilted a little, which wasn’t hard to do, as it seemed to be melting outside of its deli-drawer home. “What you say is true, young man,” the cheese replied.
“However, it was your duty to kill all virgins who reached the age of 18, and you did not. I’m afraid that two out of three is a d**ning offence.”
18 returned to his drawer and slammed it shut behind him.
“Brother Provolone Cheese is quite right. You have broken two of the three parts of the holy writ. I’m afraid that you will be d**ned. I am sorry to say so.”
That said, the mustard bottle ceased to move, and in fact fell over in the back of Ignatius’ refrigerator, lying prone where it fell.
Ignatius Kohler blinked a few times, then closed the refrigerator gingerly, lest some other piece of food chastise him.
“I don’t think I want a sandwich anymore,” were Ignatius’ last words, though if you want to be technical, “Arrgh” could be counted as his very last word.
Ignatius Kohler died and indeed was d**ned to a Generic Yellow Mustard Hell, where no sandwiches were ever eaten.
Somehow, Ignatius Kohler was okay with that.
