UNLOCKED: And Just Like Crap Season 1
They’ve been stuck behind a vault, but they’re finally liberated. Four ladies, free at last. Their names? Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha. Enjoy the entire first season of And Just Like Crap!
Also, just FYI, this is all incredibly NSFW. TTYL!
xx
Katya (Showrunner, Head Writer)
Crapter One: Start Spreading the Nudes, Samantha Returns from Afghanistan
Exterior: Afghanistan. Samantha Jones, wet and nude, reclines on an antique chaise in the desert with Osama Bin Laden, who is also wet and nude, but quite dead. They’re watching the season finale of And Just Like That…
Samantha: Jesus Christ this show sucks shit. What a humorless dog show. Where was the sex?
She slurps down her double martini, seductively chews on the giant stuffed olive and fellates the toothpick, giving goo-goo eyes at the wet nude corpse of Bin Laden. The camera pans out to reveal Samantha is hanging upside down from a sex swing, and a line of eager Taliban soldiers are waiting patiently for their chance to give her oral sex.
Samantha: Boys, that’s enough cunnilingus for one day, it’s time for this cunny to board Aer Lingus. Let’s fire up the jets and head to brunch with the girls one last time.
Samantha gets up to board the jet, and swats away the valet who offers her an Oscar de la Renta gown.
Samantha: I won’t be needing that–
She dumps a bucket of water on herself and asserts:
–I prefer to stay wet and nude, thank you very much.
She pulls a vibrator out of her ass and puts it into the valet’s mouth. Insert pun here.
Meanwhile, uptown, Charlotte, who is now the mayor of New York City, is putting the finishing touches on her campaign to convert all of the city's subway stations into Jewish-owned candle stores. She sits back, her puffy face stretched to the limit with a satisfied grin, and loudly belches. Her husband, Harry, rushes into the room with his penis hanging out of his trousers and she screams.
Harry: Honey, what’s wrong?
Charlotte: Nothing, sweaty, I just choked on my saliva. Would you like a blowie?
Harry: No thank you, I have cancer.
Charlotte: Oh shoot! Well, don’t tell Lily. She’ll kill herself.
Harry: But honey, Lily’s dead, don’t you remember? She died of Toxic Shock Syndrome 3 months ago.
Charlotte: Oh shoot! I guess I’ve been so busy with these subway conversions I forgot to tell Rock to fish out Lily’s tampon.
Harry: Honey, who’s Rock?
Charlotte: I don’t know.
Meanwhile, downtown, Miranda has left Steve to join a secret Russian lesbian TikTok house underneath the 9/11 memorial. She grumbles as she reads on the kitchen bulletin board that she’s been designated dishwasher for the sixteenth straight week in a row. A squat young person with a mustache walks by and slaps her on the ass. Miranda gets a boner.
Meanwhile Carrie emerges from the cobbler on Park Avenue with a nasty grin on her smug face, her nipples lewdly jutting out of the gossamer fabric of her Balenciaga nightgown. It’s noon, and the cobbler (played jointly by Alec Baldwin and Mel Gibson sewn together at the face) has agreed to stitch together all 98 pairs of her Manolo Blahnik shoes to create one big shoe so she can live in it.
Back in Kabul, Samantha’s jet is taking off, while the pilot is getting her off. A closeup of the jet’s radar reveals the destination to be the third floor of Bergdorf Goodman, the very spot that Carrie has chosen for her shoe home. Samantha’s phone dings and she glances at a text message from Carrie.
Carrie: Hey Sam, I’m at Bergdorf’s. Wanna get a drink?
Samantha: No. I want to kill you, hag.
Carrie: Great, meet me at the mayor’s mansion. I’ll be the brunette with the puffy face and I’ve changed my name to Charlotte. Hope that’s okay.
Samantha: That’s perfect. Friendship never goes out of style.
To be continued…
Previously on And Just Like Crap…Samantha Jones leaves Afghanistan to join the girls for brunch. Little does she know that Carrie, suspicious of Samantha’s intentions, has set her up to meet Charlotte instead. Little does Charlotte know that the brunch in question has nothing to do with mimosas, eggs or girl talk. BRUNCH is a jihadistic acronym that stands for Ballistic Retaliation Utilizing Nuclear Cunty Hateration. Bin Laden, it turns out, was a Mary J. Blige stan, as dozens of her CD’s were found in his lair before he was assassinated.
Crapter 2: When The Shit Hits The Flan
Guest starring: Lena Dunham, Zosia Mamet, Jemima Kirke, Owen Wilson
Uptown on the 3rd floor of Bergdorf Goodman, an upper crust Manhattanite shopper named Minnie Van BabyDriver (played by Lena Dunham) is aghast when she spots large plumes of smoke billowing out of what appears to be a giant art installation in the women’s shoe department. She fumbles through her $84,000 limited-edition oversized Komodo dragon skin Tweety Bird Birkin for her cellphone to call the fire department, but can’t remember the number. She frantically presses a bunch of buttons, and is connected to a phone sex line. Flustered but also a little horny, she stays on the line, thinking that maybe someone can connect her to emergency services.
Minnie: Hello? Please help, there’s a fire!
Phone sex worker (voiced by Zosia Mamet): Oh baby, sounds like you are burning up! Tell me, where exactly is all this hot steamy heat coming from?
Minnie: A shoe! From a giant shoe!
Phone sex worker: Mmmmm….sounds like you’ve got some big sexy size 12’s in desperate need of attention. Why don’t I use my long, juicy tongue to get those scorching tootsies all nice and wet.
Minnie: Ummm…sure, but please hurry. I’m on the 3rd floor of Bergdorf’s and this place is going to burn to the ground if you don’t get here quick.
Phone sex worker: Don’t worry baby, I’ll be right there. Just hold tight for a second and whatever you do, don’t hang up.
Minnie is too distracted to make out the automated voice (played by Jemima Kirke) indicating that this call will be billed at $69.95 plus $29.99 for each additional minute. After 20 minutes on hold, the thickening clouds of smoke have spread throughout the store and Minnie chokes, then passes out, dramatically flailing her little bird arms for several seconds before hitting the floor with a loud wet thud. A secret door hidden under the mother of pearl toe buckle of the giant shoe swings open to reveal Carrie peeking out of her shoe house to see what all the fuss is about. With three lit Camel wide cigarettes hanging down from her chapped lips, she sees the passed out socialite and approaches her. She presses her bare foot onto Minnie’s forehead to feel for a pulse, and finds nothing. Assuming she’s dead, she makes the sign of the cross (backwards) and quickly snatches the Komodo Birkin, then slips back into the toe buckle hatch, lights another cigarette, and immediately falls asleep.
Meanwhile, in the secret Russian TikTok House underneath the World Trade Center Memorial, Miranda is toiling away in the kitchen, washing an enormous pile of spoons. The teens hosted a gala banquet to celebrate the announcement of Jojo Siwa’s lesbianism. Her mop of sweaty hair is flecked with tinsel and glitter and as dries the last spoon, she cranes her long goose neck to check the bulletin board, desperately hoping she has been relieved of dish duty this week. She lets out a joyous scream!
Miranda: No dishes for me this week! Thank God, after all, I’m not a dishwasher–I’m a lawyer. I practice law…as a lawyer. It’s who I am!
As she glances at the bottom of the board, her face sinks when she discovers her name scrawled under what appears to be a new category: Dishmaker. Confused, she taps the shoulder of Oksana, nicknamed Oxy, (played by Owen Wilson in old-age prosthetics filmed through the Snapchat baby filter) who is rollerskating around the kitchen smoking changa out of a Native American peace pipe.
Miranda: Hey Oxy, there must be a mistake on the board–it says I’m this week’s dish-maker?
Oxy: Is correct. During Jojo party, we break many dishes in celebration. You must make new from scratch.
Miranda: Can’t I just go down to Crate and Barrel and buy some new ones?
Oxy slaps Miranda on the face, and shrieks in a low-pitched French accent: Blasphème!
Miranda: Is that near Crate and Barrel? Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve gone shopping for housewares, I’m usually busy practicing law. I’m a lawyer, it’s who I––
She is cut off by another slap to the face by Oxy, who pulls her by the arm and throws her into the ceramics room and shoves her down at the wheel, and locks the door. The ghost of Patrick Swayze’s arms materialize behind her, and the echoing voice of Don Rickles provides instructions on how to mold, fire, and glaze a new set of lovely ceramic dishware.
Meanwhile, in the mayor’s mansion, an Afghani jet has landed on the front lawn. An emergency slide studded with dildos, butt plugs and vibrators unfurls as a soaking wet and totally nude Samantha prepares to disembark. She does an Olympic style salute and then hops on a mini-tramp to bounce into a perfectly executed front laid out somersault with a full twist landing prone and spread eagle as she slides down the 100 meter slide, hitting nearly every sexual speed bump on the way down. The descent lasts an impressive ten minutes and induces more than a dozen vaginal orgasms–a personal best for our sex-crazed heroine.
On the ground, an assistant to the mayor (also played by Lena Dunham with a badly drawn-on mustache) welcomes Ms. Jones, offering the nude woman a terry cloth bathrobe which Samantha promptly swats away, although she does hang on to the robe’s belt in order to strangle the assistant to death.
After trampling the freshly dead corpse of the assistant, and armed with nothing but her breasts, boobs and tiddies, not to mention her killer can, juicy pussoir, and chic face-framing razor-cut wavy shag, she storms into the mayor’s residence, ready to put an end to that insufferable fake-ass bony Bradshaw bitch.
As she enters the foyer, she is greeted by Charlotte’s husband Harry, who still hasn’t managed to figure out how to put his penis back in his trousers. A quick glance at the wet naked Jones and his exposed penis instantly achieves full tumescence. Samantha, mistaking Harry for Mr. Big, is a bit confused, but nevertheless intrigued by the girthy Jewish flagpole flying at full mast.
Samantha: Well, now I know why they call you Big.
Harry: (stammering) Uhhh..huh...what do you mean?
Samantha approaches seductively, her breasts dripping, and her tongue hanging lewdly from her lacquered lips.
Samantha: They call you Big, on account of your penis. It’s rather…big.
She grabs the shaft of his penis with her right hand. They both look down and then lock eyes as she says:
Samantha: Hmmm, looks like this is a two-hand job.
She grabs onto his penis with her other hand. Her eyes widen as she notices that there is even more exposed real estate left on his shaft. Harry gasps when a third hand clutches his hard member, a hand that does not belong to him but to his wife Charlotte.
Samantha raises an eyebrow at Charlotte, not once loosening her grip on Harry’s penis. Charlotte also maintains her grip and then clutches the head of her husband’s dong with her other hand. Now with two sets of female hands gripping tightly on his rigid throbbing member, Harry lets out a series of guttural moans. Charlotte and Samantha eyes are fixed to one another’s, their icy stares unflinching.
Samantha: Houston, we have a problem.
Charlotte: Looks like we’re not in Texas anymore.
The two women stay locked in an intense stare as their collective grip on Harry’s member tightens further, drawing him closer and closer to the edge of a soon to be unforgettable orgasm…
To be continued…
Previously on And Just Like Crap…Carrie hotboxes her shoe-house inside of Bergdorf’s and robs a dead socialite of her Birkin. Miranda is forced by the Tik Tok teens to sculpt new ceramic bowls and dishes guided by the hands of Patrick Swayze’s ghost. Samantha and Charlotte are both locked into a diva face off with both their hands clinging firmly to the penis of Charlotte’s husband Harry. Samantha has been set up to believe Charlotte is actually Carrie, which is kind of ridiculous to assume could ever happen, but this is premium cable–anything is possible…
Crapter 3: Whose Dick is it Anyway?
Meanwhile in the mayor’s mansion, Sam and Charlotte have Harry’s hard penis in the vice grip of their four hands, both ladies eyes locked unflinchingly toward one anothers. They finally break the stare down when Harry’s penis is ripped clean off his body with a cartoon boing sound effect that seems to originate not from the penis but from somewhere else. Then, a bunch of static and commotion erupts from the down the hall. Both ladies look up at Harry, who is neither in pain nor bleeding at all. Incredulous, Samantha examines the dismembered member and then places it into her mouth. After a four to five minute oral examination of the penis, she shrugs and leans in to Charlotte:
Samantha: Carrie honey, think it’s safe to say there’s something very wrong with Big’s dong–it’s not a dick at all, in fact, it appears to be–
Charlotte cuts her off: Why are calling me Carrie? I’m Charlotte, hello! I know you’ve spent the last few years abroad being radicalized while going through menopause, but I can’t believe you would mistake me–the cheerful, rich, waspy, new Jew mother of two, well, maybe now just one. I guess Lily died and we can’t find our other child. We’re waiting to hear back from Doctor Shitasse in Forensics (played by Lena Dunham) for the toxicology report which will hopefully give us a clue as to whether they are simply missing and probably dead or were actually Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson this whole time.
Samantha: Charlotte, do you really think I’m that stupid? I’m a successful, accomplished and very glamorous 65 year-old woman thriving in her second act as a jihadist for the Taliban. I know you’re you, I was just pretending so that we could get to the bottom of the real pickle here: just who is this guy?
They turn to dickless Harry, and take a little too long to perform a badly edited Scooby Dooby style face mask reveal to show his true identity as both the girls gasp!
Samantha: Oh my god, it’s Steve!
Miranda’s husband Steve sheepishly nods.
Charlotte, flabbergasted, shrieks: Just where the fuck is Harry? And why did you want me to suck your fake prosthetic penis? Did something happen to yours? You can talk about it with us, honey. Just tell me, where is my husband?
Steve: I’m afraid it’s not so simple. You see, Harry came to me several months ago, hysterical, saying he met this gorgeous, charming, sassy blonde in a book store. They hit it off, and moved to Seattle. Think her name was Sally or something like that. Anyways, he moved to Seattle a while ago and asked me to fill in for him here, and since Miranda left me to surf the web under the 9/11 memorial, I kinda had nothing else going on.
Charlotte: So all those blowjobs, and the sex, and the piss play–that was you this whole time Steve?
Steve: Actually no, I wish it were though. This fake weenie is actually…
Samantha cuts him off: …a microphone, which has been recording all of your conversations so that the Taliban has a direct line to the mayor. They’ve got some major operation in the works, but I honestly couldn’t even tell you the first thing about it. We don’t talk so much as they just wait patiently in line to eat me out. It’s actually pretty fierce, even in that desert heat, my pussy stays absolutely soaking wet.
Charlotte: I’m so happy to hear that Sam.
Samantha: Me too.
Meanwhile under the 9/11 memorial secret TikTok house, Miranda, surrounded by an avalanche of brand new beautifully glazed ceramic dishware, is in the throes of ecstasy, enjoying her 12th orgasm in a row, all made possible by the very capable ghost hands of Patrick Swayze. She can’t see him but she feels him of course, deep inside her pussy and he’s also got a couple of digits in her bum.
Miranda breathless, whispers sensually: But what about Molly?
Patrick (signing through the ghost hands that Miranda cannot see, and then just writing down the message in wet clay so she can read it): Molly? Wait are you referring to the character Molly from the movie Ghost? Are you a total moron? This isn’t a romantic feature film, I’m the real hands of the ghost of Patrick Swayze and I’ve come to not only show you how to make ceramics, and give you multiple vaginal orgasms, but to warn you that your friend Carrie is dangerous.
Miranda: Carrie? Please, that stupid bitch has her head up her own ass, the only danger she should be worried about is E. Coli.
Ghost arms in clay: Go, get out of this place and find Carrie. She needs to be stopped.
Back in Bergdorf’s, Carrie opens the Komodo dragon Birkin that she stole off the woman she inadvertently killed. Inside it was a medium sized Birkin bag which held yet an even smaller Birkin clutch, this tiny one made out of a sparrow with a little chicken wire handle. Inside that bag was a key, a key to her old apartment where she knew she must return if she stood any chance at protecting herself from Samantha and her wet naked machinations. Carrie fires up the shoe and as little wheely tires emerged from the sole, she skates out of Bergdorf’s crashing through the third story window and crushing about a dozen tourists on the sidewalk. With no time to dilly dally and no license plates or insurance information to exchange with the corpses flattened under her giant Manolo-rollo-skate shoe house, she glides toward the Brooklyn Bridge to pay a very special and long overdue visit to an old friend: a mystery woman (played by Lena Dunham) whose identity shall only be revealed next week. So, stay tuned.
Previously on And Just Like Crap… Charlotte discovers that Harry is really Steve, and that the Taliban has been receiving information from the mayor’s mansion through his microphone penis. Patrick Swayze’s ghost hands warn Miranda that Carrie is dangerous and must be stopped. Carrie heads to the Brooklyn Bridge in her mobile shoe home.
Crapter 4: The Phantom Troll-booth
Carrie has the pedal to the metal as her mobile Manolo shoe house recklessly careens through traffic approaching the Brooklyn Bridge. She has killed approximately 200 people and smoked 300 cigarettes in just under an hour, a personal record for her. Before changing lanes, she glances in the full length mirror at her outfit, which is fierce, and then yanks the steering wheel, cutting sharply into a bus headed to the MET, forcing their bus off the bridge and into the water, killing them all.
Carrie snorts as she pulls up to the tollbooth.
Carrie: Hmmm, I don’t remember there being a toll booth here. But then again, I don’t even have a driver’s license…
She squints and notices the large sign reads “TROLL BOOTH” and sees the booth worker (played by Lena Denham in an oversized “Kiss Me I’m Irish” t-shirt with two large circles cut out to show her breasts) has a stern expression.
Carrie: Good evening madame.
Troll: It’s 11am you junkie whore.
Carrie: Oh wow, really? Ok.
The troll uncovers a large green box hidden under her t shirt.
Troll: Put your right hand in the box.
Carrie stubs her cigarette and cautiously slides her gnarled claw into the box. The troll lunges forward toward Carrie’s neck.
Troll: I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar, poisoned needle. Instant death. The test is simple: remove your hand from the box and you die.
Carrie: What’s in the box?
Troll: Gain.
Carrie: Gain?
Troll: Yes, Gain laundry detergent.
Carrie winces, and removes her hand which is slathered in Gain laundry detergent only to feel the needle pierce her grizzled neck flesh.
And just like crap, Carrie died.
Previously on And Just Like Crap… Carrie encounters a mischievous troll at the Brooklyn Bridge Troll Booth and after failing to pass the Gom Jabbar test, she dies in a Gain laundry detergent-soaked death.
Crapter 5: Finale
With the freshly deceased Carrie slumped over the open window of her shoe home, the troll, never one to miss out on such a tempting opportunity, hops out of her booth and commandeers the Manolomobile. She flees the scene like a bat out of hell, or like a troll out of the toll. Unsure of what to do with the dead body, the troll pulls into a rest stop near Jersey and decides to style Carrie’s hair into a beautiful braided chignon updo, softly pulling out a few tendrils in the front to frame her famously long face. They look like satin ribbons flowing off an intricate crown, even against the bone gray leather of her very rapidly decaying skin. The troll looks for her phone to take a pic for her hair instagram but can’t find it, so she tosses the corpse into the Port-a-John and gets back in the car. With any luck and no traffic, she just might make it in time for her 10 year high school reunion in Scranton.
Meanwhile, downtown, Miranda is precariously perched on a Bird scooter, unable to steer due to the dozens of legal documents cemented to her pottery-glazed mitts. But as Patrick Swayze's ghost hands invisibly guide the handlebars safely through the bustling streets of the Big Apple, an unfamiliar sense of calm propels her mind into a previously unexplored metaphysical neighborhood. Suddenly, long held beliefs and self-evident truths start to unravel. “Does God exist? If ghost hands are real (and so helpful by the way, shit!), then maybe there are ghost legs out there too, helping little kids at soccer games and kicking large parcels down the hall for old ladies.” The muscles on her face begin to stretch and strain to turn her naturally twisted grimace into the shape of a smile. And in a matter of moments, as the fecal scented Manhattan breeze sweeps around her face and tousles her short dry hair, a realization so deep and powerful erupts inside of her, as if a blocked-up hydrant from Astoria suddenly burst after 30 years of neglect from lack of city funding. She doesn’t have to be a cantankerous, contrarian, career-obsessed, pleasure-resistant, frumpy closeted lesbian in a semi-enjoyable marriage to a man that is reliable, pleasant, attractive, doting and devoted. And just like that, Miranda Hobbs does the unthinkable: She hops off that scooter and gets down on one knee, and looks directly into the eyes of the invisible hands of the ghost of Patrick Swayze and says, “Will you marry me?”
And as she patiently waits for an answer, her heart nearly bursting out of her chest, a courier knocks her over into traffic and she is flattened into the asphalt by a bread truck running a red light.
We cut to Carrie’s funeral which is taking place at the edge of a crowded parking lot of a discount shoe outlet that shares space with a cemetery.
Samantha and Charlotte, their hands both tightly gripping the penis microphone, arrive at the same time as the priest (Lena Dunham as herself) begins the ceremony.
Dr. Reverend Lena Dunham (speaking into a microphone and in a British accent): If there is anyone present who objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your pe–
The microphone cuts out before she can finish the word “peace,” and both Charlotte and Samantha misinterpret the line as “forever hold your penis” and are instantly startled and lock eyes with each other, gripping the mic weenie even tighter.
Suddenly, Sarah Sanderson from Hocus Pocus pops out of the shoebox casket and exclaims, “Your honor, I object!” She is undeniably stunning with her signature beachy blonde hair and smokey eyes that she’s daringly paired with an English banister robe, causing the somber funeral goers to erupt in applause. She hisses at the them and lunges for a nearby baby (played by Judi Dench) so she can eat it, but in a shocking twist that rocks the indie music world, Ayesha Erotica appears from under a headstone that looks uncannily like a witness stand and screams “Oh, THERE’S that damn baby!” Ayesha hurls a large chunk of brisket at Sarah and grabs the baby. Then, the happy reunited mother and child twerk their way out of the cemetery courtroom and back to the studio to record a follow-up EP I Found My Damn Baby, which goes triple platinum.
The Sanderson sister, who is munching on that surprisingly delicious chunk of New York brisket, doesn’t notice the Volvo heading in reverse at 50mph in her direction. Behind the wheel sits a frazzled but determined Meredith Morton, doing her mascara in the mirror while talking on 2 separate bluetooth headsets to her clients back in Stamford. She stops 2 inches short of Sanderson and gets out of the car with a bag full of Christmas presents, files of evidence, a gavel, some roses, and a casserole dish filled to the brim with strata, which she immediately spills on the witch, instantly melting the Sanderson sister into a perfectly circular puddle of brown ooze about as big as a child’s hula hoop. The jaded New York funeral goers would normally have all checked out at this point but they stare, transfixed at the perfect brown puddle which is now steaming like a bowl of gravy on the stove. (To this day, the puddle is still there, unchanged in size and still steaming, and a petition was just submitted to make it an official historic landmark.)
The crowd’s trance-like shock is interrupted by a JBL 67 bluetooth speaker that falls out of a tree and onto the head of Meredith, instantly killing her, which doesn’t elicit much from the weary crowd. As they start to disperse, they notice the speaker has grown about 50 times in size and as it blasts the soundtrack from Footloose, Rusty Rodriguez emerges from one of the bumping side panels of the speaker. Then, out pops Janey Glenn from Girls Just Wanna Have Fun from the other side of the speaker. They start dancing, getting everyone up on their feet.
Charlotte and Samantha, who have made up, microphone dick in tow, break their death stare just in time to see everyone dancing. Samantha forgets why they came in the first place and strips nude, twerking on the casket. Charlotte, the mayor, calls in the National Guard but immediately dismisses them when they arrive as Samantha discretely points out all of the kilos of narcotics and stolen firearms wedged inside the open shoebox casket. It turns out Carrie’s publishing company was just a money laundering vehicle for a Mexican cartel.
Dr. Reverend Lena Dunham breathes an annoyingly loud sigh of relief when the National Guard, whom she has mistaken for the IRS, roll away in their tanks, and she removes the skin of her face, as well as the skin of her body, which takes a while, you know, and reveals herself to be the real Sarah Jessica Parker from our universe. She then pulls out her MacBook, searches for wifi, has to tether to someone’s iPhone and finally googles an image of a gun and threateningly points the screen at everyone who all just go along with her insanely stupid attempt at holding them hostage and pretend to be terrified because it’s actually a great opportunity to work on their acting skills. Sarah Jessica Parker, smugly satisfied that her stupid computer trick worked, then reads a poem about her hat. It goes something like this:
There once was a woman so pretty and fine
Who traveled all the way to Paris to dine.
In a hideous gown as large as a tent
On which half of the budget was apparently spent
It was all for a scene in my career’s finest work
Which was promptly shit on by some gay jerk
A nasty old queen whose last name was King
But alas I’d forgotten my necklace that says “Sing”
Which JLo had taught me means don't let them win
From the excellent movie I saw called Marry Me
I wish they’d make a movie called Carry Me, out of this funeral because it sucks shit.
Everyone at the funeral chanted in unison: “For fuck’s sake please stop.”
SJP, exasperated, pulls her favorite hat out from under her skirt and it turns out to be a machine that throws out Chinese Throwing Stars. She turns it on, but since it hasn’t been serviced since the 90s, it malfunctions and slices her bony body into several chunks. And just like crap, she died.
Thanks for reading! Season 2 is in the works, so make sure to subscribe.
art tbh
queen!