Monday, April 29, 2013

CM's Newest Published Scholar: From the Onion.

I've Been Having Some Pretty Fucked-Up Bread Thoughts Lately
Commentary Opinion ISSUE 49•17 Apr 24, 2013
By A Duck

I consider myself a regular duck. I float around the pond, I waddle through the park, I fly south for the winter, and every so often I get to thinking about eating some bread. Sure, we all enjoy the occasional daydream about some nice old man sitting on a bench tossing us sandwich crust after sandwich crust, but I’ve gotta say, recently I’ve been having some really fucked-up bread thoughts.

You can read on if you want, but I’m warning you, this is some seriously depraved stuff I’m talking about here.

I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve found myself in the middle of one of these weird, vivid fantasies about all kinds of bread—wheat, white, pumpernickel, French, you name it—sometimes even two or three different types of bread at once. No matter how much I try to distract myself by diving underwater or preening my plumage, it seems like every thought that runs through my head ends with me covered in crumbs and bill-deep in a bakery-fresh Kaiser roll.

Just the other night I had this intense, twisted dream where I found a big moldy baguette sticking out of a muddy riverbank. It was caked in dirt and ants and must have been sitting there for weeks, but did I care? No, I didn’t give two fucks. I was raring to go to town on that filthy loaf, but I didn’t just jump in—no, I savored it. First slowly—very slowly—and then faster and faster until I was gulping down green, rotten bites as fast as I could get them into my craw, ravaging the thing like there was no tomorrow.

And that’s not the worst of it, either. Sometimes, out of nowhere, I’ll start imagining what it would be like to have a complete stranger shove hot dog buns into my bill—just bun after bun until I’m practically choking on all that enriched white bread going down my throat and I can’t handle it anymore. Other days, it seems like I can’t even go five minutes without thinking about eating an entire chewed-up muffin right out of a goose’s mouth. But on the worst days, I’ll imagine that a gigantic loaf of sourdough is eating me. Yeah, you heard that right. I envision this big bready mouth opening and closing around me, and I’m screaming in ecstasy the whole time as I’m torn limb from limb.

Look, it’s not like I sit around trying to think of this stuff. Most of the time, I’m just drifting along near some cattails and then, bam, I’ll have this unbelievably clear image of myself shitting out an entire loaf of rye right in the park. Then—and this is the sick fucking part—I start pecking at it. How messed up is that? Eventually, I devour the whole pile of feces-smeared bread, and then I shit the whole thing out again and get right back to eating it. And I keep shitting it and eating it and shitting it and eating it over and over again until I’m covered head-to-webbed-feet in bread and shit.

That’s revolting, right? I’m a sick son of a bitch for even telling you this stuff, huh?

The worst thing is, there’s absolutely no way I could ever tell anyone in my flock about this. Jesus, those guys would never understand the disgusting things I think about. I don’t want to know how they’d react if they knew I secretly wanted to have each and every feather plucked off my body and have a piping hot piece of toast rubbed all over my raw flesh. Oh, God, I want that. I want that toast to burn my skin and then I want to fucking eat that duck-flavored toast. Oh, fuck. Gimme that.

I know if I put my mind to it I could imagine something a little more normal. I’m sure I could focus on something else, you know, something like a regular lady sitting there feeding me some multigrain slices that I could enjoy. And then maybe she throws another one and another one and I keep eating them while I sit on the grass.

But then maybe she rolls up her sleeve and it turns out her whole arm is made of this perfectly leavened golden-brown bread. And I don’t even stop to think—I just flap right up and start tearing into her forearm. Then she slowly unbuttons her dress and lets me go at her big bread-like tits. Oh, yeah. And I keep gnawing and feasting until I’m crawling all the way up her wet, doughy vagina, and I’m just gorging myself on her soft, bready interior. Oh, yeah. And I keep going until I’ve eaten every last morsel of her body and I’m overcome with pure, intense pleasure.

Christ, I need help.              

(Sorry for the recreation here, without comment, but I imagine the comment section of this thread will have a mind of its own. ~Academic Monkey)


  1. Sounds like you really want to be some kind of odd pâté. ;-)

  2. Some things just belong on CM (and require no commentary).

    Besides, it seems to be possibly-TMI day on CM (not that every day on CM doesn't have that potential) (see header, at least in its current incarnation, but it sounds like Cal may be too busy to change it for a while, which may just be Leslie's plan).

    1. " seems to be possibly-TMI day on CM..."

      What a gentle admonishment. Mea culpa.

    2. Actually, Proffie G, I was only commenting on the masthead message to Cal (from Leslie, I assume); I didn't notice whatever comments of yours you're referring to (and my reaction in any case was not "ewww! don't want to hear about that!" but "hmmm. . .wonder whether Cal wants that out in public; well I'm sure Leslie is just teasing him"). From Cal's comment under the hits graph, I suspect I may have missed an exchange somewhere that went poof. So it goes.

  3. You are a sick, sick duck. You need help.

  4. And, as a French, mustachioed scholar, I am offended.

  5. Our little duck is growing up! (misty eyed)

  6. Dear 'Field and Stream.' I never believed the letters you printed, until one day last week.......