By staff writer Allison Parks
September 17, 2007
Revenge is a dish best served cold…or sweet. Sweet as pie. Sometimes boys can make broads do evil, vile things—a dirty tampon through a mail slot here, a disemboweled pet there. And sometimes broads can make their friends do vile things on their behalf in the name of ya-ya sisterhood. Several years ago, I executed such an act of secondhand revenge that has never been spoken about…until this day.
One summer my friend Ashley met a seemingly nice boy. They went on some dates, had some sexins, nuzzled noses, rode horses on the beach, and wore matching outfits. Then one day he took her to a party, but he did not behave like a proper suitor on this day, oh no. He went in a bedroom while poor Ashley was taking an unsuspecting piss in the forest, and he shagged some tramp stamp havin’ trollup! Ashley fled the party, sad, horny, and alone, but mostly angry. Her wicked heart burned for revenge as her eyes turned a crimson red, and two pointy horns sprouted out of her scalp.
“I wanted to turn back. What if he gave me a karate chop to the cunt? Would I still be fertile?”
Several days later we met at Bilco’s, Napa’s foremost shitty bar, for an emergency revenge planning summit. Along with our wits, we brought along a copy of Sun Tzu’s, The Art of War, some ninja stars, and two snugly fitting Power Rangers Halloween costumes. The night felt right for a stealth attack. But what would we do? Nothing that could get us in serious trouble, of course (murder, dismemberment, etc), but if nothing else, we had to give him a good scare. We settled on a simple, yet brilliant plan of attack: I would ring his doorbell, pie him in the face, then run away.
I needed three basic ingredients: transportation, a pie, and courage. Ashley and I were flat broke, so we needed to get creative… or just steal what we needed, which is what we did. Clad in our inconspicuous Power Ranger suits, we moseyed on into Safeway and swiped one chocolate whip cream pie and two tall cans of Coors light to help me summon the courage I so desperately needed. From there we went back to Bilco’s, sold a couple pieces to get four dollars worth of gas. With the necessary supplies in hand, we were off like bandits, or perhaps like Thelma and Louise from the major motion picture, Thelma and Louise.
Ashley’s brakes squeaked and a terrifying thunderclap rattled the sky as we pulled up in front of the target’s house. I looked up, and to my absolute horror I saw a flight of stairs I had to climb to get to his front door. I wanted to turn back. What if he gave me a karate chop to the cunt? Would I still be fertile? What if he had ninja stars of his own? What if he had rabies? Or a prosthetic leg that shot bullets? But I knew what had to be done—if I didn’t follow through, then men everywhere would go on thinking it’s OK to shag trollops while their pseudo-gfs piss in the wilderness. I shuttered with terror and took another swig of my tall can. It was time.
I began ascending the stairs. Nervous sweat poured out of my feet, causing me to slide around in my flip flops. My heart raced as I stepped up each stair. Finally, I reached the door. I looked back to Ashley for reassurance; her red eyes glowed behind the dashboard as she beamed with joy.
I rang the doorbell.
The victim opened the door with a huge smile on his face (which, admittedly, made me feel bad for about half a second), then I slammed that delicious pie right in his happy mug and hollered, “Asswipe!”
I turned and started to run, while the trollop-shagger stood there completely stunned. “What the fuck?!!” he screamed, covered in whip cream.
I ran like Seabiscuit until I was safely back in Ashley’s vehicle, covered in nervous sweat, and we cackled like hyenas and drove off into the night.
The pie victim always suspected Ashley was the culprit, but she played it off well, and he soon left town as a result of his pie-humiliation. So, dirty cheaters beware, for I could be outside your door with a pie, or even a scalding pot pie, ready to singe off your face.