DISCLAIMER: Me no own Nny. (MAKES ME SAD!) I don't own Uncrustables, either, to be honest. (Oh—and Skool comes from Zim.) I make no moneys doin' this. T.T
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okaaaaay. . . not really sure what I should say, here. Except that if you like "Uncrustables"— not those small, circle shaped ones in the boxes at the store; I'm talkin' about those long, oval-ish constructions—you might not want to read this. At least, not right after eating.
Oh, and yes, this is an AU. ("Alternate Universe." I get asked what AU means, sometimes. . . )
DEDICATION: For my friend Ryan, who had to suffer through me eating my "Uncrustable" like Johnny. XD Mmm. . . yummy. . .
PS. This was my first time trying to write in a JTHM-style, so please forgive the. . . un-JTHM-ish-ness of this. (sweatdrop)
"It looks like intestines."
I can't help but smirk slightly as my girlfriend starts to choke, clamping a thin hand over her mouth in order to keep milk from spewing out. "Wha--?" she choughs, trying her damnedest to choke through her exasperation. (I guess my meal-time conversation skills need a bit of work.) "What the hell are you talking about? It's PB&J, for God's sake!"
"I know. But it looks like intestines," I repeat coolly, toying with my spork and shooting a warning glare at the cheerleader who—if only for a moment—looked as if she dared to CONSIDER joining us at our shadowed table. My grin widens a few teeth when she scampers away, crying overdramatically. "Peanut butter innards."
"You're fucked up."
"Maybe," I agree, stabbing the warm, limp, processed bread with the tongs of my plastic utensil. "But I'm right. See?"
Tearing through a few more inches of breadstuff, I peal back the layer of clinging whiteness to display an oozing mass of. . . well, shit—long, thick tendrils of coiling brown ropes, slightly ridged and nearly writhing; piled layer upon slimy layer. They oozed; slippery tan worms resting in a heated pool of melting pale violet stickiness. Criss-crossing. Twisting. Just. . . being.
I take a long slurp of my cherry freezy.
"God. . ." My girlfriend wrinkles her nose, vibrant green eyes crinkling in disgust. "That's just. . . wrong." She stabs hesitantly at it with her own spork, as if afraid it would bite back. "And I thought skool food could sink no lower."
"There's always a floor beneath the bottom, Devi," I shrug, before happily placing the wheat-byproduct-blanket upon the peanut butter-intestines and jelly-bile— taking a large bite.
Devi convulses, face paling. "Nny! Fuck, you're SICK!"
I smile devilishly, savoring the peanut-y goodness. "Why, thank you." A shiver races down my spine. "Mmmm. . . yummy."