American Pie-ism

  A film entered the media and the populace in 1999. It was a comedy for teens and all who could laugh for the sake of good stupid fun without necessarily reenacting any of the content therein. The film received praise, love, hate, and censure concomitantly as any film has, does, and will.
  The part of the population who would enjoy it did enjoy it. They laughed and talked about it with affection in the subsequent groups who developed quickly and had hap to speak of it between or after any other conversational topic. They did not expect any actual recurrence of the content in the film, most notably the image of a horny teen humping a warm, delicious, steaming pie with his father eventually walking in and seeing the whole mess.
   People watched the movie, liked it, and all was well. Nothing happened to disorder any one's mind beyond or pior to the ever present disorderment the world over. The film came out, it was received, it was rejected, the furor subsided, and lingers still some where some how. Would any one daringly imitate the content of American Pie?
   We must first make an interrogative stab of some kind. Where would something terrible and preverse ensue which parallels the content - more specifically the scene consisting of pie buggery - and cause a great deal of social tension toward an act so utterly disgusting, depraved, and reprehensible? By a short process of elimination we arrive at a solution. The actor, Jason Biggs, was attempting intercourse with a pie which was successful. Pie is eaten therefore it is food. As with anything we ingest we arrive at better locality for such a wanton, fell, and controversial misdeed. We arrive at the kitchen. How do we know who our perpetrator is?
  We must make another interrogative stab in the dark. We will take a cook. He's probably not as scrupulous as other cooks in some areas and absolutely unlikable in others. He has a sickly basement pallor from his mom's house, incurred by weeks of straight video games his in his dank, tenebrous hole of privation and inactivity. He has black under fingernails he doesn't clip. His person is slovenly. His hair grease could be peeled away with a butter knife. He smells like the squalor of the basment, his preversions, and the flatulence of sandwiches comprised of mustard, garlic, and bologna.  He has probably watched American Pie and liked it. By a short process of elimination, we arrive at our perpetrator. He is the man for the job. He is the elect candidate for he his just disgusting enough to do what the other man will not do. Viola!
  The perp works in a kitchen specializing in midway Italian. Hell, Throw some pizza in there and we arrive at the ubiquitous and cherished Hobart dough mixer.  Some mixers are better than others, but they abound and are bullion in kitchens. Fools think everything in the digital age is good. Digital hobarts are not durable. Nine times out of ten old mixers with gears stand the test of time.
  This cook is not fit to be seen. The rotund jolly jackass pours out of his chef's garb; he is unprepossessing as may have been previously ascertained. This miscreant is put in the back to avoid appearances. Only his mother can see him and who probably got slapped by a skittish doctor at his birth. He knows a thing or two about a simple dough recipe and can yield a product on demand. Not difficult even the product is second standard, which it most likely is.
  We have partially constructed our character and our story. The scab is alone one day. He is rendering dough balls for the pizzas. He rolls them by hand. He is asexual as are worms and suchlike. He does not have the experience of the opposite sex nor the virtue of conciliating their affections. He is lonely and feeling uncommonly frisky.
    He loses himself in a lewd reverie. The dough balls start to resemble tits. If pie is small-time action then dough is big love, having first arrived onto the counter from a huge heap mixed in the ubiquitous hobart. The heap must be cut into two or more smaller parts with a knife to make it easy to lift the dough out of the mixing bowl. The poundage is nothing to get cocky about, but it is considerably heavy. The perp knows this. His first batch is halfway in balls - tits - on the counter arranged in lovely rows. He is increasingly frisky. His eyes are fixated more and more on the heap of dough from his second batch. He rubs at his flaccid member and shakes it around to jump start it. This is foreplay to him. The batch finishes its mixing cycle, the dough stops spinning, and the music starts. Violins and opera  melodramatically set the scene for strange romance. A torrid bead of sweat slides like snot down his forehead.
  The perspiring oaf looks around for any undesirables, any body who would forbid him his love, this act of fruiting passion finally leading up to this perfect, beautiful moment. Finally his love like none other has arrived, the stuff of memories and stories. He looks around; no one seems to be watching. What luck, a feasible moment of grace for our perp! The opera is blaring ferociously, a baritone, a gut-level thunderous bass loud enough to shatter windows! A cloud of Cupid is hovering o'er him  and the dough, only he's not holding a bow and arrow. He's holding a dildo and a rubber chicken with a sleazy grin.
   The cook wastes no time. He pulls down his pants and goes at it unabashedly, making strange with the heap jutting out of the bowl and holding a dough ball - tit - on the counter. He grabs at is as if it would lactate. He moans his mother's name and smacks his own ass repeatedly for motivation. He makes an aperture in the heap wide enough for staying power. He starts slow and periodically scans the room for undesirables. His balls commense to slap the dough and his chode back and forth, keeping time with the opera. He gains speed and his eyes are hopelessly pinched shut in oblivion. He is soon found out, incriminated, and thrown out in some haste.
  The chef arrives. He is standing behind the cook now at it like a fly to shit, his bare, red, and hairy ass shaking like jello on an unstable surface. He at first sees nothing. He is not an alarmist merely an authority figure. He looks up from his clipboard. The veritable pin he holds drops on the tile floor. His jaw drops abruptly like an anvil. His eyes well up with horror. He is aghast and at first paralyzed with a stupid look on his face. The guilty cook looks over his shoulder acknowledging his chef's sudden, disconcerting arrival. "Ooooo yeah, oh yeah, oooo - uh, fah - fuck! Sheeeitt! Heya chef, hahaha!" He is panting and perspiring in the heat of the moment, slowly withdrawing from the heap and relinquishing his vice grip on the ruined, deflated, flattened, sorry-looking dough ball. A wet hand print is sustained in an irrevocable indentation where he grabbed, pulled, and leaned.
     The opera comes to a screeching halt. The chef comes out of his paralysis and wallops him with the clipboard across the jaw. He ties a knot of death at the end of his towel, stooping over the cook, who is shuddering and quaking, too stupid to pray. He swings his weapon across the cook's head, sending a spray of blood to the heap in the hobart. He pulls the fellow up fiercely by his scruffs and rolls, partially tearing the chef's garb. The chef brings him vigorously to his feet.  Another wallop from the clipboard seemed a good idea. His rage goes unsated. He begins lambasting and then bludgeoning the fellow for good measure. He finishes punctually with a blow to the preponderate cook's sizeable belly. He drags him to the entrance and throws him to the street, God help him.
   We have reached the end. What was seemingly inimitable in American Pie is subject to one-upmanship from a fellow braver than the film. Consequently the chef would have a heated and exasperating time with the clean up and no doubt submit the occurrence to an instance of ipso facto food costs. Did this really happen? American Pie happened, right?