Your name is Butterball, and you’re the hungriest fluffy around! You have a violet blue coat and an orange mane. You’re a precious earthy fluffy, your mummah even says so! You’re also so lucky, cause your mummah cooks so many tasty nummies for you! All you have to say is “Mummah, Buttewbaww am suuu hungwies, can hab nummies pweese?” And mummah will reach into her big pot she always has on the stove and give you something from it! You can’t see how she gets them from up there, but, somehow, mummah always has food when she’s at the stove. The nummies are always so good, you can barely tell what it is half the time.
But you do know that those nummies are often sketties! And sketties are the bestestest thing ever! You’ve gotten really good at telling when it’s gonna be sketties too! Mummah sometimes brings out a special box that she says has the “sketti noodle” in it, and that means it’s definitely sketties!
…And today you really really want sketties. Mummah took you to the vet, and you were so excited to see the other fluffies there! But while the vet was talking to you, you started to get so very sleepy, and when you woke up, your special lumps were gone! You huuhuu’ed to your mummah so hard, “Whewe wumps? Wat habben Buddahbaww speshuw wumps? wumps gu way? huwties… huuuuuhuuhuuuuu…” But she said sometimes fluffies have their special lumps taken away when they get old enough, and that it just happens to some fluffies. That didn’t make you feel better at all, why did it have to be your lumps?? So you huuhuu’ed even harder. Finally, your mummah looked back at you and promised that because you were such a very good fluffy, you could have sketties at home! Sketties! You bounced in place, fat rolls undulating like a water bed. Sketties sketties!
When you got home, you limped around in the kitchen. The places where your lumps had been were still terribly sore, like someone had given you the sorriest hoofsies. But you wanted those sketties so bad, you couldn’t wait for them in the safe room. Mummah got the special sketti box out using her step stool next to the stove, and filled the pot with sink juice! Then she put the pot on the stove. Mummah always said that it’s just water in the pot, but that’s ridiculous. Water doesn’t taste like sketties! Only sink juice does! Mummah always fills her cups and your bowl with water from the “fridgerator”. So, obviously the sink juice is special. Mummah set the pot on the counter and the stove made the clicky noises. That meant the sketties were being born… But mummah told you “be a good fluffy and wait” and something about water and noodles. So you waited for so many forevers looking at the pot.
You stamped your stubby legs around as you waited for something to happen. Why is this taking so long? You could’ve watched three episodes of Fwuff Got Tawent by now! It had all the puffy hot stuff coming off of it already, and mummah had put the sketti box up there too… Maybe sketties were already done! Mummah did say you were a good fluffy, and you did wait too. Now it’s time for sketties… “Buddahbaww git sketties… hungwy fo sketti nummies!” You whispered to yourself as you horked your fat rolls onto the step stool. Slowly, carefully, you reached the top of the steps. You planted your soft hooves onto the counter, your no-wumps still hurting and making you huuhuu just a little bit. But it’d all be worth it for a taste of sketties. You hopped on your back legs near the pot and peeked inside, bracing yourself on the handles. There’s no sketti here at all!! What is mummah even making?? It’s just bubbly sink juice! Then a stray neuron fired in your head. The sink juice tastes like skettis… Why not just drink the sink juice? It was a foolproof idea! The sink juice was already right there in the pot. You leaned in to taste the sketti flavored juice, and it made your eyes water from the heat. But that’s okay, mummah says sketti is best when it’s hot and fresh! You dipped your tongue in and realized immediately.
This doesn’t taste like sketties at all! This tastes like burny hurties!!! You pulled your face from the scalding liquid and squealed. “Skreee!! Nu huwt gud fwuffy! Sink jus am meanie! Buddahbaww gib dummeh jus sowwy hoofsies!” At your battle cry, you gave the dummy meanie sink juice pot a valiant push at the base, losing your footing in the process. You tumbled onto the gas burner after the pot. The flames roasted your supple fluff as the pot tipped on top of you, dumping boiling water on the opposite side. You’re immediately plunged into whatever the polar opposite of skettiland is. You shrieked out in pain as you flailed on the burner, unable to free yourself as your excessive fat, rendering through your cracking skin, bound you to the hot tines of the grate. “SKREEEE!!! SKREEEEEEEEEE!!! NU HUWT GUD FWUFFY SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” You begged and screeched for mercy from the meanie burnie munstah and the bad sink juice but they caused more and more burnie hurties all the same. As your flesh grilled and sizzled, your fluff caught fire on the open flame. Your nono stick popped like an overcooked vienna sausage in the heat of the inferno. The room was filled with the smell of burnt hair, cooked ham, and the sound of your screams. A terrible, terrible screeching, like a giant, evil chirpy babbeh sounded, making you flail even more.
Finally, mummah dashed in. You could hardly even tell, the inferno drying your already scalded skin and causing your eyes to bulge from the heat. You called out to her desperately, barely able to breathe.
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Your name is Ann and you have a fat little fluffy named Butterball. Butterball isn’t really a bad fluffy, he’s just fat as all hell. A true glutton. But that worked out just fine, you love to cook and he loves to eat. So every time you would cook, you made sure Butterball could get some too. But you didn’t want Butterball to go out of his way to… “get some” from a neighbor’s mare, or worse, a feral. You were sad to snip his balls, but you promised him he could have spaghetti for dinner, because he really was good at the vet.
Now he’s flailing on the stove burner, his body entombed in smoky flame as the fire alarm blasts in your ears. He calls to you for help, desperately.
“MUMMAH MUMMAH!!! HEWWWPPP SKREEEEEEE!!! BUWNIEHUWTIESSKREEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
You panic and grab the skillet you had intended to use to cook the meat. You bring it down squarely on Butterball over and over, trying to put out the fire. He squeals and screams with each metallic whack, his fat melting beneath him onto the burner as he’s beaten to a mashed pile from above.
You finally put out the fire enough to reach over him and turn the burner off, You scramble to shut off the fire alarm. Finally, you look at his miserable body, mangled beyond recognition. Fluffless, bleeding, his teeth scattered across the stove. His left eye hangs from its socket as his head lolls brokenly, parallel to his body. He’s a folded fluffy pancake on the grate. You sigh and scrape the charred remains off the appliance, dumping Butterball’s smoldering corpse into a five gallon bucket. Hopefully this counts under the vet’s 15 day guarantee.