Nominated for their work in the film “Lost in Digestion,” a tub of strawberries knocked on my door tonight and asked me to dress them.
“Look we don’t have a lot of time,” said the lead strawberry, “what can you do for us?”
I carried them over to the sink for a quick evaluation.
“I see chocolate,” I said, huskily. “Dark chocolate…no! Bittersweet.”
“I like bittersweet,” said another strawberry.
“I’m sorry, maybe I should let you dress yourself!”
“Sorry,” said the strawberry.
“Good,” I snapped. “Now let’s get to it.”
I dropped a block of bittersweet chocolate on a cutting board.
“The darkness of the chocolate will compliment your natural skin tones,” I explained. “Will you be wearing makeup?”
“No,” said the lead strawberry.
“Smart,” I said, as I began chopping the chocolate.
I quickly dropped the chocolate in a bowl on top of a double boiler.
“Melt God damn it!”
“Is this guy nuts?” I heard a strawberry whisper.
I swung around: “Who said that?”
The strawberries were silent.
“I thought so,” I said, swinging back.
The chocolate was melted:
“Ok guys,” I said. “Now you want to look good, right?”
The strawberries nodded.
“Well looking good ain’t easy,” I said carefully. “No pain no gain.”
“Uh oh,” said a strawberry.
“Now I’m not gonna lie,” I said. “This chocolate’s hot. Some might say scalding hot. But just think of it like a really hot, really chocolatey hot tub. Who’s first?
The dipping went smoothly. Not one scream. In fact, after it was over the strawberries didn’t say anything at all.
“Ok guys,” I said. “The hard part’s over.”
“Now for the fun!” I cheered. “Who loves buttons and bow ties!”
I chopped up some white chocolate and melted it.
“Who’s first?” I asked.
The strawberries were eerily quiet.
“Very well,” I said. I picked up two strawberries and dressed them.
They fell flat on the plate, arms crossed over their chests.
“Adorable!” I sang. Somewhere, in the distance, a funeral dirge played.
A knock at the door. It was the strawberry limo driver.
“Just a sec,” I said.
“What’s that smell?” asked the driver.
“Chocolate,” I said.
“No it ain’t,” he said. “It smells like dead strawberry.”
He picked up his strawberry cell phone. “We’re gonna need a hearse,” I heard him say.
Pretty soon the cops came. They started asking questions. Then the media. Then Joan Rivers.
“Where’s the strawberries?” she brayed, pushing her way through.
She found them stacked in their mass grave.
“You look gorgeous!” she said to them. “Who’s your mortician?”
I snuck out to an Oscar party, wiping the strawberry juice from my hands. Mel Gibson saw me and told me he wanted to work with me on his next project, “The Passion Fruit.” I politely refused and told him he’d look great in chocolate. Bittersweet.