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The Adventures of Phil, the Styrofoam Coffee CupThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Daniel | |
| Saturday, 10 May 2008 | |
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Share it:      The idea for this insult to the craft of writing came to me when I worked at McDonalds. My manager sent me to the storage building to retrieve a sleeve of coffee cups. The rest, as they say, is history. Isn't it strange where you can find inspiration these days? Enjoy!
Phil was lonely, as he lay dormant inside the plastic wrap with his fellow brothers and sisters that made up the sleeve of styrofoam coffee cups. He had no idea how long he had been stuck in the damp, dark building. But he felt that the constant silence while he waited for his turn to be picked was slowly driving him mad. It had all started in the factory where he was made. When he opened his metaphoric eyes and looked around at his surroundings, he was surprised, and somewhat delighted, to find that he was on a moving conveyor belt with several other members of his family. Oh boy, he thought as he sped along, I've been born on a rollercoaster. But, where was his mother? He surveyed his own white cup-like body, and looked around for someone who matched it, but was possibly recovering from having given birth on a roller coaster. Finding no one that seemed likely, invisible tears welled up inside of him as he realized that he was an orphan. Even as he tried to overcome his grief, he saw a metal needle coming down towards his soft, exposed skin. Maybe this is a distant aunt or uncle, Phil thought hopefully. They'll take me home with them, raise me, and treat me like the son they never had. His theory was dashed however as the needle began injecting ink into the young cups skin, with a malice and hatred that Phil had never seen before. When it was over, the familiar golden arches were permanently engraved on his body, and Phil realized that he had gotten his first tattoo at the tender age of three and a half minutes. He had always planned on waiting for college for that kind of thing, but when he recovered from the nausea that washed through his non-existent stomach, he realized that it wasn't so bad. Although he was hoping for a skull and cross bones or maybe the name of the young napkin or cup holder that would take his virginity. Before he could dwell further on the subject, a cold hand clamped around his fragil body, and placed him in a long line with his brothers and sisters, who all had identical tattoos. That emblem must be popular, the cup thought to himself. "Hi everyone," he said cheerfully to his family. "I'm Phil." He received several replies, including several people inviting him to visit a place called "Hell." Several others must have thought he looked hungry because they invited him to eat a rare dish called " ****." As he was pondering the meaning of these strange words, a plastic bag was wrapped tightly around Phil and his siblings. Panic rose up into his tiny little heart as the oxygen supply was cut off. His fictional lungs struggled to find purchase in the airless environment, until at last sweet darkness enveloped his senses. "Wake up." an angellic voice was calling to him from the great beyond. "Wake up, *******.Cups don't breathe." Phil opened his eyes to find him and his fellow sleeve-mates, bouncing merrily in the back of a large truck as it sped down the highway.Phil was surprised to find himself still alive, but then realized that the heavenly voice was correct. He didn't have to breathe. And so, Phil and his family soon found themselves on a shelf in the dark storage room, eagerly awaiting their turn to be picked by the employee who would take them on to fullfill their destiny. Even as he reflected on his difficult origins, for about the 78th time, the man in the burgandy shirt with a logo that matched Phils tatoo, entered, smoking a foul piece of burning white paper that made his eyes water. This is it, Phil thought excitedly as his container was pulled out of the box and carried into the busy restaurant. I'm finally gonna do it. Phil didn't know exactly what he was going to do, but he expected that it would be something grand.One by one, his fellow brothes and sisters were picked out of the sleeve and carried on to their next destination.Then, it was Phil's turn. The hand reached down and picked him up, slightly rougher than Phil would have liked. He was placed on a small flat tray and then handed over to a kind looking elderly gentleman who thanked the owner of the hand with a smile. This must be my new family, Phil thought. He felt he was about to burst with excitement. The man must have been excited too, because he didn't go far with Phil before he picked him up gently with his slightly shaking hands, and placed him underneath a large black spout with a handle. As Phil watched, the man slowly reached up and pulled down on the handle. Phil screamed in agony as the scalding hot liquid struck his sensitive styrofoam skin and began to fill up his insides. Liquid fire raced through ever non-existent nerve ending and pain receptor in his manufactured body. Finally, when he felt he could hold no more, the silver haired demon released the handle. Phil was delirious with pain as his tiny body went into shock from the sudden input of stimulus. His life flashed before his eyes and he realized with some regret that getting a tattoo was the most exciting thing that had happened to him. He was determined not to let it end like this. Just as he was about to recover from the shock that he had endured as the black lava washed over him, the elderly ass hole picked him up once again, and molested him thoroughly by placing the Phils brim in his mouth and pouring some of the strong smelling liquid into it. Phil felt dirty and used as the mans horrible breath washed over him and little pieces of sausage biscuit that were stuck in the mans false teeth washed back down into Phil's body. That was it. He couldn't take it anymore. His bottom finally gave way from the pressure of the heat and humility, spilling its contents into the wrinkled torturers lap. The last thing that Phil saw before death finally took him into its cold bosom, was the old bastard leaping to his feet, cursing wildly and smacking at his junk as he attempted to cool his burning, wrinkled testicals. Phil smiled slightly, and then knew no more.
Stay tuned as Jon the Square of Toilet Paper makes his debut next time. Thanks for reading.
Copyright 2008 Daniel |
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