A kissagram caper
By Stephen Philip Druce
A kissagram lady died inside a giant birthday cake she was expected to leap out of at a party attended by my wife and me.
I said to my wife, “Now there’s a plan backfired.”
“Well and truly backfired,” she said.
“Backfired from the back, that plan did,” I said.
“Yes, a plan backfired alright — from the back it backfired,” she said.
“Very much a backfired plan,” I said.
“Yes, it’s certainly tarnished a jolly, celebratory knees-up,” she said.
“Yes, human mortality has seemingly thwarted a fun, meticulously planned present,” I said.
“A backfired plan,” she said.
“And a tragedy,” I said.
“A tragedy and a cake,” she said.
“Yes, a tragedy and a cake with candles, icing, fruit, and marzipan,” I said.
“Yes, a catastrophe: a dead body and a wasted cake,” she said.
“Yes, a waste of life and cake ingredients,” I said.
“Yes, a tragedy and a waste — 175 grams of unsalted butter and 17 grams of sugar,” she said.
“Yes, three large eggs, some vanilla extract, and bananas,” I said.
“Yes, chopped pecans too,” she said. “Full-fat cheese and 250 grams of self-rising flour — what a waste.”
“What do you think she died of?” I asked the wife.
“I think it was a sex game that went wrong, there’s a car exhaust pipe sticking in her ass,” she said.
“Now there’s a plan backfired,” I said.
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