The Worst Childhood Story

It was a normal Friday afternoon: a couple of duddles eating some strudels. The equilibrium of our personalities were well balanced. The three of us got among quite well.

Connor was the neutralizer. I considered him the lithium of the crew. Never too high, never too low.

I was the provocateur. I could go from a fine to felony charges within moments. 

Insert Kyle. Kyle was David’s younger brother. He was troubled. malleable and oh-so fallible. The result was a subconscious subservient. 

If you asked him to jump off a bridge, he would do it wihout the slighest of vitriol. Now, let’s assume the fall was not fatal. He would then limp and crawl to edge of the bridge once more and jump on your command. 

 I knew this. I understood this damn well. I should have stopped myself right then and there.  But I didn’t.

The strudels were fresh out of the crisper. Its flaky exterior resembled a bronze nugget. What was missing was the creamy icing. 

He cut the icing open. A maze-like pattern was applied to each struddel. The results were aesthetically pleasing. Bestowed upon us were commercially ready strudels. 

Biting into the strudel, the initial heat would be subsided by a wave of white glaze. A sea of high fructose corn syrup and margarine. Man, doesn’t that sound delicious? 

We go about the day. As dawn sets in, teenage shenanigans appears in a formidable fashion. Somehow, our conversation steered towards a game of truth or dare. The first thing that came to my mind was toaster strudels. I think I was still hungry. 

“I dare you to cum on a toaster strudel and eat it.” 

“Okay,” replied David. 

We headed back to David’s house. 

The initial magic of our earlier toaster strudels seemed to be lost. This time it seemed demented. I should have stopped right then and there halting further escalation. But I didn’t. 

Kyle takes a plastic container to the bathroom and comes out with a substance that, although it looks similar to icing, is not. Whatever, no stopping him now.

David and I follow him back to the kitchen where he has a butter knife and a paper plate set up. He takes the freshly squeezed liquid and spread on the strudel like one would spread cream cheese on a bagel.  

All of it. He actually ate all of it. Every last bite. 

 I past by the frozen pasteries. Pancakes. Waffles. Towards the end of the aisle I come across the toaster strudels, reminding me of which cognitive dissonance seems to be overtaking. 


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