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Christine O’Donnell put on her Don’t Fuck Me heels and adjusted her ash gray lipstick in the mirror. She made sure that her vagina was ice cold and that her metal panties were locked on under her TJ Maxx dress and she was ready to go. Her heart sluggishly beat in her chest with anticipation. She could still hardly believe that she had met such a perfect salad match. After years of looking for someone else who also enjoyed their salads covered in the blood of the Jews, served in a bowl made out of the skull of a homosexual, in a WHITES ONLY restaurant, she had finally found true love. And he was a movie star to boot! Christine O’Donnell could hardly believe her luck. First winning the primary election in Delaware with the overwhelming support of 3.5 percent of the state’s population, and now a beautiful match with a perfect lover on SaladMatch.com, her homepage. Everything was turning up Christine O’Donnell. The only thing that could possibly be better, she thought, would be to die on the way to Just Salad and get to meet Jesus Christ in God’s paradise. For a brief moment, Christine thought of driving her white Ford Fiesta through the guardrail and over the side of the bridge into the river, but she knew that He frowned upon suicides, and besides, the waiting of terrible awful life on Earth would make meeting Him all the sweeter when it finally did happen. But sometimes it was so hard not to be dead and in heaven yet!
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the salad artist at Just Salad said, “we don’t serve a salad dressed with the blood of Jews in a bowl made out of…did you say made out of the skull of a…of a homosexual? Yeah, we don’t have those. We just use, you know, ceramic bowls, I guess. Regular bowls.”
“Well, can you at least get that Negro out of here?” Christine O’Donnell said, jerking her thumb at a man sitting in the window? “We’re taking this country back!”
The salad artist shook his head. Christine O’Donnell made a mental note that when she was elected President her first act in office would be to enact a Federal law that required this insolent civilian to be sent back to Mexico where he came from. (The man was not Mexican and was not from Mexico. He was not even Hispanic.)
Christine O’Donnell took a seat by the wall and proceeded to throw stones at the black man until he left. She opened her Bible and began to read out loud. In the margins of the Book, she had doodled an infinite number of variations of “Mrs. Bill O’Reilly” and “Christine O’Reilly.” The margins of the Book looked just like her jeans! The jingling bell in the door jingled. Christine O’Donnell paused from reading from the Bible out loud and looked up. A man with a thick fake moustache and a gas station hat and glasses without lenses or even any glass whatsoever just glasses frames walked in. Christine returned to her Book and began to read out loud, but rolled a stone around in her hand, just in case the man turned out to be a Jew or a homosexual or a particularly white-looking Mexican or a masturbator.
“Christine?” a voice asked, and she could feel a shadow moving over her. She looked up. “I’m movie star Mel Gibson? Your Salad Match Dot Love.”
Christine O’Donnell cocked her head to the side. “You didn’t have a moustache in your profile photo. Or in any of your movies. I guess you had that Crazy Man Beard in the press you were doing for something a couple years ago, I remember reading about that on a blog making fun of you. But I don’t remember a moustache. Or these glasses. The hat seems new but I guess it’s just a hat.”
“I’m wearing a perfect disguise,” Mel Gibson said.
“It is perfect,” Christine O’Donnell agreed.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Mel Gibson asked. Christine nodded at the chair across from her. Mel sat. “Excuse me for a second,” he said, pulling out a cell phone. “I’m sorry, I know this is rude, I just have to make a quick call.”
Christine O’Donnell’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“I NEED A WOMAN! NOT A FUCKING LITTLE GIRL WITH A FUCKING DYSFUNCTIONAL CUNT. I NEED A FUCKING WOMAN. (PANTING) I DON’T NEED MEDICATION. YOU NEED A FUCKING BAT IN THE SIDE OF THE HEAD. ALL RIGHT? HOW ‘BOUT THAT? YOU NEED A FUCKING DOCTOR. YOU NEED A FUCKING BRAIN TRANSPLANT. YOU NEED A FUCKING, YOU NEED A FUCKING SOUL. I NEED MEDICATION. I NEED SOMEONE WHO TREATS ME LIKE A MAN, LIKE A HUMAN BEING. WITH KINDNESS, WHO UNDERSTANDS WHAT GRATITUDE IS, BECAUSE I FUCKING BEND OVER BACKWARDS WITH MY BALLS IN A KNOT TO DO IT ALL FOR HER AND SHE GIVES ME SHIT, LIKE A FUCKING SOUR LOOK OR SAYS I’M MEAN. MEAN? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? THIS IS MEAN! GET IT? YOU GET IT NOW? WHAT MEAN IS? GET IT? (PANTING) YOU FUCKING DON’T CARE ABOUT ME. I’M HAVING A HARD TIME, AND YOU FUCKING YANK THE RUG, YOU BITCH, YOU FUCKING SELFISH BITCH. (PANTING) DON’T YOU DARE HANG UP ON ME,” Mel Gibson shouted from across the table, echoing in her ear a few seconds later through the phone.
“Who is this?” Christine O’Donnell asked, because Christine O’Donnell is fucking retarded.
“Oh, sorry, this is Mel. Mel Gibson? We’re on a date right now?”
“Oh hi! It’s nice to hear from you! You were saying?”
“I DESERVE TO BE BLOWN, FIRST, BEFORE THE FUCKING JACUZZI! OK? I’LL BURN THE GODDAMN HOUSE DOWN, BUT BLOW ME FIRST! (SCREAMING) HOW DARE YOU!! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU. (PANTING) RERRRGGGHH!! YOU WANTED THE NUMBER OF MY THERAPIST? DON’T YOU EVER SPEAK TO HIM! FIND YOUR OWN GODDAMN THERAPIST.(PANTING) BECAUSE YOU GOT PROBLEMS, MORE THAN ME.”
Christine O’Donnell smiled. Finally, love at last. Mel Gibson reached across the table and took her hand in his. He squeezed and continued to scream. “I NEED A WOMAN! NOT A FUCKING LITTLE GIRL WITH A FUCKING DYSFUNCTIONAL CUNT. I NEED A FUCKING WOMAN. (PANTING) I DON’T NEED MEDICATION. YOU NEED A FUCKING BAT IN THE SIDE OF THE HEAD. ALL RIGHT? HOW ‘BOUT THAT? YOU NEED A FUCKING DOCTOR. YOU NEED A FUCKING BRAIN TRANSPLANT. YOU NEED A FUCKING, YOU NEED A FUCKING SOUL. I NEED MEDICATION. I NEED SOMEONE WHO TREATS ME LIKE A MAN, LIKE A HUMAN BEING. WITH KINDNESS, WHO UNDERSTANDS WHAT GRATITUDE IS, BECAUSE I FUCKING BEND OVER BACKWARDS WITH MY BALLS IN A KNOT TO DO IT ALL FOR HER AND SHE GIVES ME SHIT, LIKE A FUCKING SOUR LOOK OR SAYS I’M MEAN. MEAN? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? THIS IS MEAN! GET IT? YOU GET IT NOW? WHAT MEAN IS? GET IT? (PANTING) YOU FUCKING DON’T CARE ABOUT ME. I’M HAVING A HARD TIME, AND YOU FUCKING YANK THE RUG, YOU BITCH, YOU FUCKING SELFISH BITCH. (PANTING) DON’T YOU DARE HANG UP ON ME.”
She didn’t. And the next day they were married.
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Surely, this was a match made in hummus
Mung Love?
You Can Make It Up: Videogum Has Enough Of Capu Flapu’s Salad Puns
The angry mob descended upon Capu Flapu like flies on jam. With torches flaming, they leapt on him, melting his stylish red jumper to ashes and making a start on melting his aluminium chassis. His carefully coiffured Conan hairpiece had already been removed by the delicate hand of Notsewfast.
That One sharpened his scythe in anticipation, nursing it like a pet waiting for his next meal.
Godsauce struck a match and lit his cigar, surveying the carnage as he did. Throwing his match onto the burning remains of Capu Flapu, he turned to face Steve Winwood, who was eagerly holding the camera. “Now that’s what I call a fried salad”.
DISCLAIMER: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real Monsters, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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This You Can Make It Up was my match on Salad Match.com. We are going to be married.
I do love a story with a happy ending…
TNWSS (Christine O’Donnell)
I love you.
“I know”– 8 year old Gabe dressed as Han Solo for Halloween.
It is so good.
I cry-maxed.
Man, is it just me or has it really been downergum lately? Between Bridalplasty, a show about Vanilla Ice making more money than most of us will ever see, and these two, I think we could use some cute animal pictures right about now.
Oh goddamnit.
I’m just going to post a cute animal picture:
Rad gif.
If any given sentence out of this post was commented with sincerity on Videogum, it would easily and rightfully earn lowest comment in the ball.
And yet, while the world is horrible, this is beautiful.
Call me crazy, but I think those crazy kids are going to be juuuust fine.
Until 2012.
Is it 2012 yet?
Mel Gibson OR Salad – I think I’ll go with salad. Thanks Bing.
Good fan fiction.
seriously. great.
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Ooooh what an “edgey” comment, “Drasko”…. NOT! Stigmata masturbation was already a Schizo cartoon drawn by Ivan Brunetti 15 years ago. Yawn. Been there done that.
hahahahaha. idiot!
Well, “Steve”, the first time someone used the “_______… NOT!” sarcasmo reversal on me was 17 years ago, a kid by the name of Nenad Lukić. Yawn. Been there, done that TIMES INFINITY + 1!!!
(two adult people talking here)
And next time when you’re putting something in quote marks, try to get it right. No hassle needed, you can simply copy-paste the, obviously baffling, “š” character, or even my whole name. Quite simple.
In the movie adaptation, Christine O’Donnell is to be played by seasoned improv veteran Jan Hooks. Mel Gibson to be played by a hairy racist asshole.
I say Victoria Jackson. Though they don’t look alike, much less acting will be necessary!
Oh no that’s not really Jan Hooks is it?
I can’t wait to hear their first collaborative Def Jam rap track.
Mel brings his own.
Jew-juice, surely?
(jew-jews?)
I’m going to read this story to my kids at bedtime. It was lovely.
GIVE ME BACK MY COUNTRY!
Gabe forgot to mention that Basil Marceaux Dot Com showed up they all tossed each other’s salads.
***AND THEY. God damn it.
I laughed so hard I cried reading this. Truth.
Which brings the number of times I’m cried over the existence of Christine O’Donnell to about 25 now.
The title of this alone had me belly-laughing in my school library! Thank you, videogum!
brb crying rn