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Yesterday, I spent most of the day in bed reading. Because I could. It was fantabulous. Then, I smelled the goodness that is Thanksgiving leftovers wafting up the stairs. I decided to end my day of hibernation in my super soft and warm bed to forage for food. I microwaved a plate just like the Pilgrims would have done and sat down to shovel the deliciousness into my face hole. Then my world was turned upside down when four seemingly innocent words tumbled out of Mr. Bug’s mouth: “That pie’s pretty good.”

Dafuq did he just say!? I heard the words, but I couldn’t comprehend them. They imply that he had pie. But that can’t possibly be true because the only pie in the house is Secret Pie. Secret Pie that has my fucking name written on it’s protective armor of heavy duty foil in permanent damn marker. He wouldn’t dare eat any of my Secret Pie. It goes against the mother fucking refrigerator code. You know, the if-it’s-got-a-name-on-it-leave-it-the-hell-alone code?

I whipped my head around and said, “What?! That’s my pie. It has my name on it!” He said, “It’s my name, too! And I only had a little bit. Calm down!” Apparently, he thinks his name is also “Jen.” It. Is. Not.

I’m offering up one bite (of my choosing) of the remaining Secret Pie to the first person to get here with a shovel, some “good wine,” and their own fork. Or, you can use one of my plastic forks. I ain’t giving up any of my Secret Pie and washing your damn pie-eating fork, too. Not happening. No matter how many bodies you help me bury.

And, for the record, that pie is orgasmic. James Deen (the porn star, not the dead actor) wouldn’t be able to hold his shit together for 5 seconds after tasting that pie. I’d sell my Godson (sorry, kid) for another Secret Pie. Not my soul, because everyone knows I don’t have one. “That pie’s pretty good?” Ffft! His plebeian taste buds can suck my Secret Pie’s ass!

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Shhh... It's a secret.

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