Title: Dr. Seuss and Onomatopoeia


Author: Caalan

Genre: Friendship Fluff

Pairing: None, imply whatever you wish. ;)

Rating: G

Summary: Typical morning in the Shay household. More likely it is my mind wandering and attempting to force it into a fic. Hopefully you'll enjoy it, as much as anyone can enjoy a fic about onomatopoeia (ON-NO-MAH-TOE-PEE-UH), words that are basically sounds. Oh and for those who don't know it, (you lucky people), Spam is actually a tinned pork product. No joke.

Disclaimer: I suppose I should mention that I don't own these people. I don't make money off of my ramblings. Shame, ain't it? Oh, and Spam is a trademarked product of Hormel. I think. :P


He was having a dream. There were loud hammering sounds. Or was it slamming sounds? Slamming sounds hammering in his head. A huge wall of colorful shutters opening and closing and people saying nonsensical things and a laugh track. He carefully opened one eye and registered the gray damping of color that usually meant dawn was inevitable. The laugh track stopped but the slamming hammering sounds continued, so those must have been real.

He ran a hand through his hair, which from the feel of things must have looked like an explosion of tufts and spikes, at least on the left side anyway. He gave birth to a massive yawn and grimaced as he swore he could taste his breath, or was that the fuzz in his mouth? Either way, something had to be done. He threw his legs off the bed, making sure to feel the floor with both feet. One never knew what one would step on in this household. He blearily looked for slippers, it was cold. He found one dress shoe that he'd worn to Easter Mass in Yakima and an oversized banana slipper that Carly had given him for his birthday. Stuffing his feet into the duo, he set off for the source of the slamming with a clomp from the shoe and a honk from the banana. He grinned. He still remembered Carly handing him a "couple of big honkin bananas."

After a quick stop for mouthwash, he headed toward the continuing noise. He could see Sam moving about the kitchen, randomly selecting cabinets and drawers to open, peer into, and close with annoyance. Slam! She was sporting pink Girly Cow pajama bottoms, a bright blue and purple striped tee and black converse hi-tops. Her hair looked as frightened by the outfit as he was. She stopped the slamming as he shuffled up to her…clomp!Honk!

She slowly gave him a once over and not taking her eyes from his feet, she greeted him, "Nice hair."

"I know."

"You have no ham."

"You have no key."

"I don't need a key. I NEED ham."

As she reached for another cabinet door, he grabbed her hand and sleepily they shuffle-danced until he could plop her into a stool. "Sit." He turned back and began to prowl through the cabinets as she had, but at a much lower decibel level.

"We've been to Yakima."

"That explains the snappy wardrobe."

He glanced down. He had his "Pump Up the Fruit" tee on. At least this went with the banana. Continuity and theme, you know. He shrugged and resumed his search for food.

"What up with the shorts?"

He looked down again, happy to know he HAD boxers on. They were his retro comic heroes print with all the cool phrases. KABOOM! across the front and SHAZAM! on the back with scatterings of POW, ZOOM, and ZOINKS! He glanced up at her sheepishly and she had that look, eyebrows raised, smirk in place, just itching to say it. Which she did.

"Your KERPOW is showing."


"Bed-wetter? What?"

"Nevermind. We have no food."


"None. We've been gone…" He was reaching into a high forgotten cabinet, "we've been gone for five days and you've been here obviously and…wait...here's something."

His hand latched onto the object in question and pulled it down and out of its hidey-hole.

"Potted meat."


"OH!" He whirled around to the fridge, and pulled out the large brown grocery sack labled "For Socko's Friend." He brought it out to the counter where Sam was seated. "I'm surprised you didn't find these."

"Um yeah, you understand if I am all hesitant to touch anything associated with Socko that needs refrigeration."

Spencer began to haul out cooking utensils: frying pan, spatula, mixing bowl, "Go ahead, chicken." He sported his ridiculous pun grin and Sam rolled her eyes. She reached into the bag and carefully extracted the cool oval objects, which happened to be a very pale green.

"They're eggs."

"Brilliant deduction!" He whirled his spatula.

"They're green eggs."

"They're farm fresh."

They're GREEN eggs."


"This is usually a bad thing."

"They're okay." He reached out and she handed a few of the eggs over to him. "Socko's uncle runs a farmer's market alongside the highway out to Yakima. He has these chickens and the breed usually lays slightly colored eggs. Each chicken has its own hue."

"Socko's uncle."

"Yeah…Uncle Henry."

Of course. Sam pursed her lips and shrugged her acceptance, hopping off the stool to help, and to make sure the yolks were a suitable color. "So you're cooking me green eggs and Spam."

They looked at each other then, shoulder to shoulder, grins threatening their facial calm.

He started it, "Would you like them here or there?" He handed her an egg and the mixing bowl.

"I might not like green eggs and Spam." She cracked the egg and handed him the shell.

"You have not tried them, Sam-I-Am." He flung his wrist theatrically and the shell miraculously landed in the sink.

"Would they, could they taste like ham?" They repeated the dance with more eggs, working together, shoulders grazing, punctuating the movements with giggles and snorts.

"The eggs might not, perhaps the Spam?" They went through the familiar rhythm of the rhyme, chopping potted meat and flipping omelettes.

"Would you, could you have a seat?" Sam giddily bounced to the stool at the bar.

"I'll serve the eggs, turn off the heat." He turned off the stove and spun around, plate in the air, like the grandest of waiters.

"Hurry! Hurry! Momma wants meat!" They both laughed at that.

"So now you eat green eggs and Spam." He placed the plate in front of her.

She started to pinch off an edge and Spencer slapped her hand away handing her a utensil. 'You must eat them with a fork."

Just then, a knock sounded at the door and was immediately followed with a freshly showered and neatly dressed Freddie.

Sam rolled her eyes and turned her grin back to Spencer. "Must I eat them with a dork?"

Spencer came around the bar to retrieve particles of eggshell from the floor. Sam was an excitable chef. He bent down, his backside to Freddie, gracing him with the full glory of SHAZAM! before settling across from Sam at the counter to sneak bites of omelette.

"What up with the shorts?" Freddie asked as he hesitantly edged closer.

Simultaneous responses from the two of them, heads leaning close over the plate of food.

"Onomatopoeia." "Bedwetter."

Freddie blinked.

"They're words that describe sound." Spencer attempts one last bite of Spam.

"I'm sure that's what the package says." Sam shamelessly pulls the plate away from him.

"Why not share green eggs and Spam?"

"Are you kidding? I am Sam!"

Freddie nodded, brows knitting confusion, and headed slowly and carefully toward the stairs, his exit as superfluous as his entrance, hoping for a saner start to his day upon finding Carly.

The End.

A/N: Yes, that's my brain on drugs. I have had a reaction with blisters and hives and they hurt like H-E-double hockey sticks and that requires nice fluffy painkillers. This brought thoughts of Spencer and Sam, aka Spam, and I though of Green Eggs and Ham, which reminded me of Dr. Seuss and the multiple uses of onomatopoeia in children's poetry and well…yeah…I ramble and spew. Leave a review!

I realize I have yet to write Carly into an iCarly fic. I don't know whether to remedy this or leave it as my trademark. *snorts* Oh well.