Guy Fieri and Ted Cruz Fan-Fiction...

Ted Cruz walked in a Genuinely Human Manner, as he had so often been instructed by his campaign manager, through Times Square. But what did it even matter anymore, to keep up this façade? As he passed through the heaving flanks of Midwestern tourists, he let himself show the disdain he had felt all along for their fleshy undulation. There was no hint of approbation or recognition in their squinting, piggy eyes. He let one corner of his flesh-mouth curl in a sneer. There was only one solution. Abandoned among the flesh-pigs, he would out-human them all. He’d show them. He’d wallow among them and drown his sorrows in so many Pina Colada Royales. Or maybe, South Beach Mojitos. Maybe a Caliente Margarita or seven. Gosh darnit, it was time. Time to taste the pleasures of Flavortown.
***
Guy Fieri was, as usual, standing in front of the mirror he’d tricked out with flame decals, admiring his forehead oils. Poised between the licks of flame, he truly looked like a creature from hell. This was his design. This was the expression of his will, as fixed and immutable as the switches of his pale, greased spike crown of “hair”. He licked his finger, and tasted nothing.
He heard the slapping din of his empire in the dining room behind him. They had all come to him, the masses, to worship at the altar from which all his donkey sauce flowed. He was alone in his horrifying flesh prison, but he was their king, and they were all going down with him, clutching dragon chili cheese fries in their hammy fists.
Suddenly, a revelation: a shock, something altogether new but somehow familiar. A hot pulse thrummed through his doughy animal frame and into the place where he thought there could be nothing. Where there never had been feeling. Where only the heavy weight of his continued existence, his perpetual and cursed need to summon buffalo blue-sabbi’d minions to his side hung like a millstone. It electrified him, the twang of a sudden sense of, could it be…recognition of a familiar? He slipped his mirrored sunglasses from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, flipped up the lapels of his red leather vest, and strode out, his testicles as pendulous and wrinkled as his sour cream-laden triple loaded baked potatoes. He didn’t know what was on the other side of those double doors, but he was ready. Anything was lighter, he mused, than the continually surprising weight of pure emptiness.
***
Something extraordinary was happening to Ted Cruz. As his finger traveled down the sticky, laminated length of Fieri’s chaos theory of a menu, he felt something. Stirring. In his loins. The loins he thought long dead. A longing. A yearning. And then, something more, and something far more extraordinary: a longing, and a yearning, in his heart. This was more than just a longing for the Bacon Wrapped Barbecue Shrimp–a longing which, in of itself surprised him: normally the only human food he could bare was cold Campbell’s Chunky soup, in bulk. What was happening to him? What was this…feeeeeling? And then he looked up, and the scent glands that lined his pendulous neck flapped to attention as they never had before.
***
“Hi, I’m Guy Fieri,” he said, rolling the consonant sensually and not at all obnoxiously over his wet, narrow sea worm of a tongue. “Welcome to Flavor Town, my man.” Cruz licked his thin, disquieting lips, attempting to dislodge the white ooze that had congealed there in his panic. Little did he know, that was not the only white ooze he would be dislodging on this fateful night.
“Well hi, Mr. Fieri! Or can I call you Guy?” he said, emitting a subsonic hum that meant far more than his words ever could. It was all they needed to say. And more.
***
They knew it had to happen in the dumpster, amidst the ruins Fieri had created. Amidst the soft filth-beds of over-salted linguine, the dried rivers of donkey and blue-sabbi sauce covering their thrusting bodies, like the fluid of the womb. And thrust they did, their quivering flesh truly a sight of horrors that would melt the face of any onlooker with its pasty glare. Cruz, his face a mess of Fieri’s donkey love sauce—if we could call such a primal horror show gush an act of love—as he slammed his throbbing American flagpole—his horrible, horrible, horrible throbbing American flagpole, against Fieri’s prone and rippling flanks. They both screamed, shuddering and twitching in unison:
“THIS IS WHAT WE DESERVE!”, they omitted from their mouth holes. “WE HAVE TRULY LOOKED INTO THE ABYSS AND LOOKED BACK AT OURSELVES!”
Then, after a moment of sopping, squelching grunts, they knew the moment had come. There was no turning back now. “WE ARE THE KINGS OF FLAVOR TOWN!”, they screamed, in simultaneous orgasm. The end had begun.
weneedjesusprobably fanfic eroticfanfic guyfieri tedcruz
386 notes
May 21st, 2016



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23rd & 8th, 12/20/2014
On the Saturday before Christmas, four women stood around a Christmas tree in Chelsea, against the threat of impending snow. “It’s really light as a feather. It’s all in your mind”, one of women said. She and her partner, both of whom were clad in thick work boots, gloves, and coveralls, pushed the tree through a conical tube that wrapped it in plastic wiring. The other two women looked slightly wary, but stood under the weight of their newly bought-tree as it was hoisted onto their shoulders, and were able to carry it off to their car.
“People get angry about the cost of trees”, said Mary, one of the tree-sellers. “But they don’t realize what goes into making them. First off, like, those big ones, they take fifteen years to grow. Then there’s the people who grow them, the people who prune them to make sure they turn out the right way, in the right shape, and then the people who cut them, and then ship them down here, and then us. And these people are mad because they want to pay $25 for a tree, but that’s not what it costs.” She shrugged and blew into her cupped hands.
“It’s around 50/50”, her partner, Cristal, added in a Quebecois accent. “Some people are really nice. Other people like to argue.”
Mary, who has a young face, wide blue eyes, and short, straight blonde hair, is from England. She was in the city for her first tree-selling season. Cristal, a tall Montrealer with her dreads pulled up into a wool cap and a barbell piercing through her left cheek, was down for her third year. She does seasonal work in Quebec, but that dries up in the winter, so when a friend invited her along to sell trees, she went with him. For both women, the appeal of seasonal work is that it allows them to travel. Their cycle involves short-term stints of intense, hard work, followed by long stints abroad, seeing the world. They met four years ago in Nepal, and have been traveling together since. Mary was visiting Cristal in Montreal, and she decided to try her hand at slinging trees. So far, it had been going well, and they were looking forward to traveling once Christmas came.
“The world is changing everywhere,” Cristal said, watching a coat-bundled couple eye a small Christmas tree. “Like, in Peru, there never used to be so many restaurants. So many American-style shops. In Tibet, they’re blowing up the mountains to build roads. Things aren’t going to be the way they used to be.”
“It’s the end of the world as we know it”, Mary sang, and laughed.
Their base of operations, a lean-to in the midst of their rows of trees, also offered jewelry for sale. Cristal said she made the macramé, and Mary did the beaded work. They learned to make jewelry during their travels in South America. “Lots of punks do that, travelling and making jewelry,” Mary said. “Selling it in the street till they have enough money to move on. Some people get really good at it. Like, wow, real art.”
A roving pack of santas and elves in various states of costume came, stumble-drunk, down the street. “I thought Santa-Con was over!”, Mary half-groaned, pressing down her own elf-ear-bedecked hat. Cristal lit a hand-rolled cigarette, took a drag, passed it to Mary. She rolls her eyes and tells me they had Santas coming close to knocking over their trees that whole weekend.
When I asked where they sleep, they gestured back to their white van. As if on cue, the side door opened and a young, slight guy with long blonde dreads emerged, shirtless and brushing his teeth. “Shift change”, Mary said, stretching. They explained that they’re a 24 hour operation, and generally they have to make sure at least one person is up at any given time. Sometimes people try to steal the trees, for themselves or to sell. “Also”, Cristal said, gesturing with the cigarette, “sometimes people buy trees when they’re drunk, at like 4:30 in the morning. That happens a lot on Fridays. Can’t miss that.”
The older couple had decided on their tree, and Mary and Cristal got to work. The dreadlocked kid spit, rinsed out his toothbrush with water from a thermos, and got back into the van to put on his gear. Another Christmas tree left the line-up.