Creative Comedy Project
In Love with Ray By the_WRITEINATOR
A short tale about a tall girl who scraped her knees whilst falling in love with a bloke who hated her guts, because in bakery terms he was a white farmhouse loaf of bread and she was a brown baguette. The moral of the following encryption, which we’ll tell you now due to a hefty word limit, is that you should never lose hope and give out poops. Be in the mind-set of: I have no poops to give. Poops being the replacement word for the f-word.
The story begins many years ago when Tyra Banks was on television with her hit show America’s Next Top Model. Remember that one? Unfortunately, I do too. Well, Tyra influenced brown baguette to no end. Despite her residence being of a sleepy town in Britain, she felt that if she lost enough weight, the American government would overrule her nationality and let her go on the American show. There came a time though, when hula-hooping in the shed wasn’t cinching her waist the way she imagined it would, and so she took out a gym membership.
The saleswoman was very nice and pushy at the same time, much like penis. Our poor girl signed up for a year. It was during the first week she came across Ray. He was going to shake her hand but upon seeing her shade, he folded his arms across his chest. Big chest must surmount to a heart full’ve gold, she thought.
Ray asked her something gym-centric. “I’d like to basically tone up and get strong, you know?” she said carefully.
Ray ticked the boxes on his clipboard. He barely looked at her. Maybe he found her too attractive to look at. That’s what she told herself. “Yeah, I don’t want to be like all those Indian guys here who, you know… Only do arm exercises but walk around with chicken shit legs. You know?”
Ray knew. He looked at her and nodded. “Oh, I hear you. Yeah, all they do is act like they own the place, do their bicep curls and then hog all the machines.” She smiled, trying to keep the conversation going but not sure how to. If you’ve ever been in this position before, you’ll know that it’s tougher than hacking through pubic hair. He went on, “I’m here standing thinking, look mate you might own the shop down the road but you don’t own the machine.”
Exactly! Do you work out too? Ray?”
“That’s really, like do you eat real, you know, healthy I mean?”
“Cool. I need to, too. But you know, Indian food--” Curry could make farmhouse turn.
“Me too. I’m basically, like, like you! Hate it when they hog stuff. Let us like, workout. I’m—
“Thai curry. Not… Your lots curry”.
Is that… Bread burning? Yeap, that’s the smell of Brown Baguette feeling like a mere lonely crumb, about to be swept away with a dustpan and brush.
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