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Leftovers (467 words) - Mild Language (1 Viewer)

J Anfinson

Retired Supervisor
This is just one of those ideas that came to me and wouldn't go away. I thought the overall idea was pretty funny, so I hope someone else gets a kick out of it too.


A splattering noise came from the kitchen and I buried my face in my hands.

Not again.

I muted the tv and got up from my recliner. As I reached for the handle on the refrigerator, something else thudded against the door. I yanked it open.

A carton of eggs stood open on the top shelf. There were several missing, which I discovered had been thrown against the inside of the door. I watched the yokes as they slid down the side of a jar of pickles and drop to the linoleum.

“Attack,” a voice cried.

A fuzzy green arm shot out of a plastic container and grabbed another egg from the carton. I ducked as it threw it at me, and the egg sailed over my head by inches. It exploded against a kitchen chair.

“Dammit,” I said. “How many times do we have to go through this? I’m not letting you out of the fridge.”

“Out of my way,” the voice said. “And bow to your new leader!”

“I think not,” something on the bottom shelf said. “They will bow to me.”

The mashed potatoes were always plotting to take over the world, but the meatloaf had plans of its own. I was always in the crossfire.

“Guys, listen,” I said. “We need to get along, alright? I know it’s not much of a life in there, but I can’t let you out either. You’d stink up the apartment.”

“You should smell yourself,” the meatloaf grumbled.

I sniffed my armpit. Nothing a little deodorant couldn’t fix.

“Regardless, throwing food around and creating a mess isn’t going to get you anywhere with me. If you ever expect me to let you out into the world, you’re going to have to learn to be nice. You can either play by my rules, or I’ll toss you down the garbage disposal.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” the mashed potatoes said.

“Try me.”

“Maybe we should form a temporary truce,” the meatloaf said.

“We may have to. He seems to be stronger at the moment.”

“That’s right,” I said. “And until you two grow legs you won’t be leaving anyway, so you may as well get used to it.”

“He’s got a point,” the meatloaf said. A slimy tongue slid along the rim of the bowl I’d put it in. The lid had come loose ages ago, and had fallen to the side. I wasn’t about to reach down there to put it back on, something might bite me.

“So do we have a deal,” I asked.

“For now,” the mashed potatoes said. “But sooner or later, you will bow down!”

I cleaned up the mess and shut the door. This was getting way out of hand.

Maybe I shouldn’t have waited so long to clean out the fridge.


Black Dracula
WF Veterans
This was a fun read, and I like the idea of all that nasty leftover food turning into little beasties. Enjoyed it.

Yokes >> yolks

“You should smell yourself,” the meatloaf grumbled.

I sniffed my armpit. Nothing a little deodorant couldn’t fix.
This bit was really funny. Nicely done!


Senior Member
I liked it. I smiled. How about (my opinion, of course) Food going "bad?" Trying to sell you drugs. Weapons deals. You don't know where those mushrooms have been...


Senior Member
Not much to negatively criticize about because this is in and of itself a nice comic sketch. Maybe a sequel with kitty litter?


Senior Member
Would you mind if I write a similar story? This has the hamsters in my head churnin' their little feet. I'll post it here.


Senior Member
Here it is:

I’m hungry, so like most people I go to the fridge.

I open the door to a god-awful scream. “AAAIIIIIII…”

I quickly shut it and scratch my head. Cautiously I open it again.


“STOP IT!” I shout. “You’re American cheese. You’re not on American Idol.” The song is horrible enough. This rendition was making my fillings ache.
It stops and pouts. Just then I notice a pair of bratwursts beating the snot out of a kosher hotdog.

“You. The German sausages.”

“Ya vol?” They turned to me and I saw the swastikas carved on their skins.

“Leave the poor guy alone,” I say.

“Nein.” They resume their attack.


“Why did the chicken cross the road?” says the bucket of KFC. “To get away from the Colonel. Thank you. You’re such a wonderful audience.”


“This isn’t open mic night at the crappy comedy club, so knock it off. I think I’ll settle for a banana. I know I’ve got a banana in here. Where is it?” I ask.

At that moment it emerges from behind the mayonnaise and steps to a vertical bar and begins pole dancing while slowly unpeeling itself. Fruits and vegetables crowd around it, cheering and whistling.

Maybe the leftover spaghetti?

“I gots a line on de ponies. How’s a-much I puts you down for?”

No. The burrito?

“Ya wanna dime bag, Senor?” It holds up a baggie with some green stuff in it. Something that didn’t grow in any garden.


Chinese food.

“The proletariat..”

French bread.

“Viva la revolution…”

Corned beef? It looks like it’s building a… HOLY SH…!

I slam the door just before the bomb goes off. Smoke is drifting out of the side. Provo bastard. Note to self: no more Irish food.

I grab a bottle out of the freezer and take a slug. “God I hate it when food goes bad.”

“I understand komrade. I vil help you forget.”

I look at the bottle in my hand. I’ve found my dinner. Vodka’s made out of potatoes, isn’t it?
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Senior Member
Geeze, it took me forever to figure out that "Like".

It's been nagging me for while- I remembered seeing something about talking food. There was a TV show in the 80's or 90's called "Dinosaurs." All their food was little talking animals.

J Anfinson

Retired Supervisor
Thank you for reading. When i was helping my wife clean out the fridge, the idea came to me. I told her what I was thinking and she just shook her head. Not that she was surprised, she's come to expect these things out of me.


Senior Member
I've been afraid of this happening to me for a long time. Thanks for the story, it was really funny! I don't have a critique to offer, unfortunately. I'm psyched that the meatloaf and mashed potato revolution is on the horizon, though.

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