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	<title>The Buttered Slice&#187; satire</title>
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		<title>A Love Beyond Death by V. POOH 10</title>
		<link>http://www.thebutteredslice.com/wordpress/archives/47</link>
		<comments>http://www.thebutteredslice.com/wordpress/archives/47#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 19 Aug 2008 21:17:09 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>V. POOH 10</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[V. POOH 10]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[satire]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writing]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[&#8220;Damn it Jim &#8230; she&#8217;s a zombie!&#8221; &#8220;It doesn&#8217;t matter. I love her. What do you have against zombies anyway? Just because they&#8217;re undead doesn&#8217;t mean they aren&#8217;t human.&#8221; &#8220;Zombies are not human, Jim.  They are the living dead!  They are abominations!&#8221; &#8220;Sticks and stones.&#8221; &#8220;Your attraction to an animated corpse is absolutely disgusting.  I mean, [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>&#8220;Damn it Jim &#8230; she&#8217;s a zombie!&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;It doesn&#8217;t matter. I love her. What do you have against zombies anyway? Just because they&#8217;re<br />
undead doesn&#8217;t mean they aren&#8217;t human.&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;Zombies are not human, Jim.  They are the living dead!  They are abominations!&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;Sticks and stones.&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;Your attraction to an animated corpse is absolutely disgusting.  I mean, she&#8217;s rotting for heaven&#8217;s sake!&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;In some perfumes is there more delight than from my mistress reeks&#8230;.&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;That&#8217;s not funny, and you&#8217;ve misquoted. You know how this has to end! The first chance she gets, she&#8217;ll eat your damn brains!&#8221;</p>
<p>&#8220;But she has already stolen my heart.&#8221;</p>
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		<title>Block &#8212; by ZEPHYR</title>
		<link>http://www.thebutteredslice.com/wordpress/archives/39</link>
		<comments>http://www.thebutteredslice.com/wordpress/archives/39#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 02 Jul 2008 15:37:12 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Zephyr</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Zephyr]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[satire]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writing]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thebutteredslice.com/wordpress/?p=39</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Hour after hour, her fingers dance on the keyboard.  Rarely, she glances around, and only hastily does she get up to hunt around for snacks, which she consumes quickly.  There are pizza-stained paper plates on the counter and empty cereal bowls on the floor, spoons glued into the hardened milk. When her hair slips from [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Hour after hour, her fingers dance on the keyboard.  Rarely, she glances<br />
around, and only hastily does she get up to hunt around for snacks, which<br />
she consumes quickly.  There are pizza-stained paper plates on the counter<br />
and empty cereal bowls on the floor, spoons glued into the hardened milk.<br />
When her hair slips from its ponytail, she deftly pulls it back out of the<br />
way, and resumes typing.</p>
<p>On late into the night she types, and when her eyes will stay open no longer<br />
she throws herself on the couch and sleeps in her clothing, teeth unbrushed,<br />
mouth open, snoring.  As light creeps back into the disheveled room, she<br />
rises, guzzles some milk from the jug, and continues typing.</p>
<p>After many days, her fingers stall.  She types a few more words, hesitates,<br />
and stops.  She looks around, rubs her eyes, stretches.  She stares at the<br />
walls and ceiling.  She knits her fingers.  She stands, paces the room -<br />
notices the empty bowls, the greasy plates.  Slowly, she moves through the<br />
room, gathering debris and carrying it to the trash, the dishwasher.  She<br />
opens the blinds.  She tilts her head, as though listening for an inner<br />
voice &#8211; but seems to hear nothing.</p>
<p>More days unfold.  The apartment is tidy, the crumbs vacuumed, the counters<br />
wiped.  From time to time she sits in front of the computer, her fingers<br />
perched on the keys &#8211; but the fingers remain still.  She slumps in her<br />
chair, sighs, and gets up to straighten a pile of books into a neat stack.</p>
<p>Then one morning, as suddenly as it had departed, the muse returns.  The mad<br />
typing resumes.  She smiles, lifts one hand briefly to stroke her ponytail,<br />
types.</p>
<p>She clicks on her printer, and the loose papers churn out.  She gathers them<br />
into a pile, its solid heft resting comfortably on her desk.  The cover<br />
sheet, printed in size 36 font, is visible from across the room:</p>
<p>&#8220;Ron Bites It:  Harry and Hermione&#8217;s True Love Story&#8221;</p>
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