Scrap post?
I wanted to write a fic where Stan and Kyle had a three-way with Craig that didn't go so hot, and also Kyle made little hot dogs, which some people call "pigs in a blanket" but I don't heed those people.
Anyway, the voyage from little hot dogs to orgy was going to be that Kyle was making these as appetizers for Stan's family's Christmas party, or something, for which they had to wake up in the morning and drive home. They were going to give a ride to Wendy, who'd just broken up with her girlfriend. Kyle was going to feel shitty about himself because he was going to be unemployed because he had graduated from medical school but quit his residency because he couldn't deal with like, actually being a doctor. Also Wendy and Kyle were supposed to hate each other.
I have no time to actually finish any story that's not already on my impressive fan fic ledger, so here you go:
~
Unable to help sighing, Kyle stares at the package of Pillsbury croissant dough, scraps of paper wrapping littering the counter. The tube says if you tear along the seam in the vacuum-sealed cardboard the thing will pop open, but Kyle’s ripped the wrapper off, it’s in shreds, and the tube isn’t opening. He resolved to whack it against the counter until it gives.
This is what he’s doing when Stan gets home from work, carrying a basket wrapped with a tartan bow.
“Oh jesus,” Kyle groans, dropping the tube, “another one of these?”
It’s the customary holiday gift from the company, a seasonal basket of apples, pears, water crackers, two kinds of cheddar cheese logs, and an assortment of salamis. “This year we’ve hit the jackpot,” Stan says, and Kyle is annoyed that he peeked into the basket in the car, without Kyle there to inspect the contents. “We got a jar of mustard.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know,” Stan replies, “I didn’t look at it that closely.”
Kyle pulls it from the hamper, inspecting it, tracing his fingers over the label. “Champagne aioli. Nice.”
“I thought it was mustard.”
Kyle’s putting it back into the basket, rooting around for the cheese and salamis. “It’s mustard aioli.”
“And what exactly is that supposed to be?”
Kyle shrugs. “Don’t ask me.” He’s found the package of salamis and lays them on the table next to the basket. “It’s your holiday gift.”
“I got a bonus, too.” Stan hunches down and begins to unlace his shoes.
“That’s nice,” says Kyle, pretending he doesn’t desperately want to know how much it’s for. Recently, due to his continuing unemployment, it's come to his attention that certain parties who shall not be named may or may not have, in passing, allegedly jokingly (though almost certainly not) referred to Kyle as a "housewife." Other parties, who it's no use not naming because they're Eric Cartman so why bother, definitely and without irony recently posted a comment on Kyle's Facebook wall calling him a "gold digger." Kyle would like to refute this, because while it's true that he hasn't done jack shit for a long time now, Stan's salary, though comfortable, is hardly worth digging for. They live in a two-bedroom condo in a subdivision in Ft. Collins, where Stan is a middle manager at, of all things, a beer manufacturer. "A brewery," Stan likes to correct people, though there's no beer brewed in the building where Stan works; just a lot of offices. He's in charge of in-house ad copy, and he reports to the director of marketing, a guy Kyle calls "TKTK" behind his back for reasons that, years into this job, totally escape him. There's a lot that escapes Kyle, but he's trying to take it in stride. What is true is that he's 100 percent committed to every idiotic joke he came up with in his youth, so long as he can remember them. If Stan thinks that's stupid, he hasn't said anything.
"What time are we leaving tomorrow?" Kyle asks, opening the knife drawer. Maybe he can stab his way into this tube of dough.
"I think noon." Stan looks up from the champagne aioli. "What are you doing? Don't stab that thing."
"I can't get it open!" How am I supposed to make little hot dogs--"
"We always called them weenies--"
"Like I care what you guys called them." Kyle slips the knife under the metal cap at the end of the canister and begins to pry.
A look of concern and worry lingers on Stan's face, but he clears his throat and says, "Don't be mad at me..."
"Mad at you for what?" Kyle pulls out the knife, tosses it on the counter, and rips off the cap. "There, see!"
"Good job," says Stan. "I offered Wendy a ride."
Kyle's fingers tighten around the croissant dough. He cocks his head, a gesture he only makes when rolling his eyes isn't nearly enough. "Really?"
"Well, yeah." Stan picks up the cap and walks it to the pull-out garbage. "She's going home, too."
Wendy is an assistant professor of political science at Colorado State. She's really the only functional human being Stan will bother to hang out with. Something about this infuriates Kyle down to his bones. It's not envy, really; though Stan and Wendy "dated" as children and then dated again in high school, their relationship was more about companionable silence than anything else. Wendy is outspoken, always has been, but Stan brings out something serene in her. They like to moan to each other, maybe. Unfortunately Wendy has been moaning to Stan a lot lately, since she showed up at the condo four months ago with her hatchback full of boxes and a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She wasn't forthcoming with the details when Kyle was around, but this is what he knows: Catherine kicked Wendy out, and by the time she got to Stan and Kyle's, Wendy knew she wasn't going back. She's not a crier, she didn't cry, but she did sleep in their second bedroom for a week. She took meals out, until the last night, a Wednesday, when she took them to dinner and announced that she'd put a down payment on an apartment in a complex, into which she'd be moving the next day. When Stan asked what she would sleep on, she said, "an air mattress, until I buy a bed," and that was the end of the conversation. She then proceeded to regale them with a story about an abysmal essay one of her undergrads had written. Stan giggled cruelly, but Kyle spent the rest of the meal in silence, stabbing at the clams in his linguine and wondering how anyone could be so nonchalant.
Kyle tilts the can and smacks it on the bottom until the dough slides out, falling onto the counter. "Never underestimate me," he says.
"So is it cool if we leave a little early to pick her up?" Stan asks.
Tearing along the perforations in the dough, Kyle separates out unrolled croissants. "I suppose this means we'll also have to drop her off?"
"Or she could walk from my parents' house to her parents' house."
"I'm always happy to give Wendy a ride."
~
THEN after Christmas they were supposed to end up at some party at like, someone's house (Butters? like it matters) and Wendy was going to hook up with Cartman and Stan and Kyle were going to hook up with Craig only Craig was going to leave like two minutes in being like "ugh you guys are awful I'm out."
THE END
Anyway, the voyage from little hot dogs to orgy was going to be that Kyle was making these as appetizers for Stan's family's Christmas party, or something, for which they had to wake up in the morning and drive home. They were going to give a ride to Wendy, who'd just broken up with her girlfriend. Kyle was going to feel shitty about himself because he was going to be unemployed because he had graduated from medical school but quit his residency because he couldn't deal with like, actually being a doctor. Also Wendy and Kyle were supposed to hate each other.
I have no time to actually finish any story that's not already on my impressive fan fic ledger, so here you go:
~
Unable to help sighing, Kyle stares at the package of Pillsbury croissant dough, scraps of paper wrapping littering the counter. The tube says if you tear along the seam in the vacuum-sealed cardboard the thing will pop open, but Kyle’s ripped the wrapper off, it’s in shreds, and the tube isn’t opening. He resolved to whack it against the counter until it gives.
This is what he’s doing when Stan gets home from work, carrying a basket wrapped with a tartan bow.
“Oh jesus,” Kyle groans, dropping the tube, “another one of these?”
It’s the customary holiday gift from the company, a seasonal basket of apples, pears, water crackers, two kinds of cheddar cheese logs, and an assortment of salamis. “This year we’ve hit the jackpot,” Stan says, and Kyle is annoyed that he peeked into the basket in the car, without Kyle there to inspect the contents. “We got a jar of mustard.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know,” Stan replies, “I didn’t look at it that closely.”
Kyle pulls it from the hamper, inspecting it, tracing his fingers over the label. “Champagne aioli. Nice.”
“I thought it was mustard.”
Kyle’s putting it back into the basket, rooting around for the cheese and salamis. “It’s mustard aioli.”
“And what exactly is that supposed to be?”
Kyle shrugs. “Don’t ask me.” He’s found the package of salamis and lays them on the table next to the basket. “It’s your holiday gift.”
“I got a bonus, too.” Stan hunches down and begins to unlace his shoes.
“That’s nice,” says Kyle, pretending he doesn’t desperately want to know how much it’s for. Recently, due to his continuing unemployment, it's come to his attention that certain parties who shall not be named may or may not have, in passing, allegedly jokingly (though almost certainly not) referred to Kyle as a "housewife." Other parties, who it's no use not naming because they're Eric Cartman so why bother, definitely and without irony recently posted a comment on Kyle's Facebook wall calling him a "gold digger." Kyle would like to refute this, because while it's true that he hasn't done jack shit for a long time now, Stan's salary, though comfortable, is hardly worth digging for. They live in a two-bedroom condo in a subdivision in Ft. Collins, where Stan is a middle manager at, of all things, a beer manufacturer. "A brewery," Stan likes to correct people, though there's no beer brewed in the building where Stan works; just a lot of offices. He's in charge of in-house ad copy, and he reports to the director of marketing, a guy Kyle calls "TKTK" behind his back for reasons that, years into this job, totally escape him. There's a lot that escapes Kyle, but he's trying to take it in stride. What is true is that he's 100 percent committed to every idiotic joke he came up with in his youth, so long as he can remember them. If Stan thinks that's stupid, he hasn't said anything.
"What time are we leaving tomorrow?" Kyle asks, opening the knife drawer. Maybe he can stab his way into this tube of dough.
"I think noon." Stan looks up from the champagne aioli. "What are you doing? Don't stab that thing."
"I can't get it open!" How am I supposed to make little hot dogs--"
"We always called them weenies--"
"Like I care what you guys called them." Kyle slips the knife under the metal cap at the end of the canister and begins to pry.
A look of concern and worry lingers on Stan's face, but he clears his throat and says, "Don't be mad at me..."
"Mad at you for what?" Kyle pulls out the knife, tosses it on the counter, and rips off the cap. "There, see!"
"Good job," says Stan. "I offered Wendy a ride."
Kyle's fingers tighten around the croissant dough. He cocks his head, a gesture he only makes when rolling his eyes isn't nearly enough. "Really?"
"Well, yeah." Stan picks up the cap and walks it to the pull-out garbage. "She's going home, too."
Wendy is an assistant professor of political science at Colorado State. She's really the only functional human being Stan will bother to hang out with. Something about this infuriates Kyle down to his bones. It's not envy, really; though Stan and Wendy "dated" as children and then dated again in high school, their relationship was more about companionable silence than anything else. Wendy is outspoken, always has been, but Stan brings out something serene in her. They like to moan to each other, maybe. Unfortunately Wendy has been moaning to Stan a lot lately, since she showed up at the condo four months ago with her hatchback full of boxes and a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She wasn't forthcoming with the details when Kyle was around, but this is what he knows: Catherine kicked Wendy out, and by the time she got to Stan and Kyle's, Wendy knew she wasn't going back. She's not a crier, she didn't cry, but she did sleep in their second bedroom for a week. She took meals out, until the last night, a Wednesday, when she took them to dinner and announced that she'd put a down payment on an apartment in a complex, into which she'd be moving the next day. When Stan asked what she would sleep on, she said, "an air mattress, until I buy a bed," and that was the end of the conversation. She then proceeded to regale them with a story about an abysmal essay one of her undergrads had written. Stan giggled cruelly, but Kyle spent the rest of the meal in silence, stabbing at the clams in his linguine and wondering how anyone could be so nonchalant.
Kyle tilts the can and smacks it on the bottom until the dough slides out, falling onto the counter. "Never underestimate me," he says.
"So is it cool if we leave a little early to pick her up?" Stan asks.
Tearing along the perforations in the dough, Kyle separates out unrolled croissants. "I suppose this means we'll also have to drop her off?"
"Or she could walk from my parents' house to her parents' house."
"I'm always happy to give Wendy a ride."
~
THEN after Christmas they were supposed to end up at some party at like, someone's house (Butters? like it matters) and Wendy was going to hook up with Cartman and Stan and Kyle were going to hook up with Craig only Craig was going to leave like two minutes in being like "ugh you guys are awful I'm out."
THE END