[This is a fictional piece written and submitted by FNH reader Carey O'Donnell, a recent graduate of Franklin and Marshall College with a creative writing major. Take it away, Carey!]

PAULA DEEN GETS VISITORS

PAULA: Hey, y’all, hope everyone’s day is as good as mine.

Paula takes a sip from a very large glass with a pink substance in it.

PAULA: This afternoon we’re gonna try a recipe for a snack my mama taught me how to make as a girl, before her arteries popped. It’s great for any occasion you feel like noshing.

She rummages beneath her and stands up, holding a silver bowl and ladle.

PAULA: It’s a perfect little late afternoon dish my family likes to call “Tempura turkey wrapped in pig flesh”. First thing you need is a dead pig and then a dead turkey!!

She bends down off screen and stands up holding a tray with a dead pig, and then another with a turkey.

PAULA: WHOOOOWEEE, aren’t these some gems?

ENTER INA GARTEN

PAULA: Well, shit! Look who decided to drop by my kitchen!!

Paula extends her arm and wraps it around Ina’s shoulder.

INA (cupping her hands together and looking all around her): Hello, Paula, I was lost—you see—I was on my way to market, picking up some fresh parsley for this quiche I’m making Jeffrey. And I, I don’t know how I got here.

She looks ahead for a moment.

INA: It’s just I’ve, I’ve become so forgetful lately.

PAULA: Don’t even worry bout it, hun, get a little vermouth in me and I’ll be wandering around your yard in the middle of the night looking for a man to call my gimp hound!! Come on and help me out here.

Paula leads Ina over to the dead animals on the counter.

INA: Oh, I—I really shouldn’t. I’m expecting Jeffrey any moment. He’s only home one night a week now; he’ll be wanting his meal.

PAULA: Here, babycakes, when I’m feeling kind of stressed I do this to get a little of that “zen” thing those Asian people and Gwyneth Paltrow always talk about.

She takes out a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate sauce and lathers it all over her face and hands the bottle over to Ina when she’s done.

PAULA: Try it.

INA: Oh, dear.

She takes a little bit and puts it on her index finger, applying it to her lips; she shivers.

INA: Oh, my, that was—that was nice.

PAULA: OH COME ON YA SLUT AND RUB IT ALL ON.

Paula takes the bottle and pours it all over Ina’s face.

INA (nervously giggling): Thank you, Paula.

PAULA: It’s all right, sweetie. Now, first, we’re gonna get the pig’s skin off—you want to cut it open?

Hands her a large butcher’s knife.

INA: My God—I haven’t cut an animal since that time in the Hamptons when Jeffrey made me cut out a deer from the windshield with a shovel.

She looks at Paula.

INA: I didn’t want to cut it anyway—he made me do it. He always makes me do the dirty work.

Ina plunges the knife in with gusto.

INA: I—I’ve forgotten how good that feels.

PAULA: So, for you folks at home, make sure you really dig the blade in like Ina here just did.

Ina continues to stab the pig.

INA: Jeffrey had a pig roast once, Fire Island, 1975. I wasn’t invited. He had me make a tomato salad though. It was wonderful: thin sliced tomatoes and really good mozzarella. You know what he told me when he came home? “Needed more cheese”, he said.

Paula takes another sip of her drink and shakes her head at the camera.

PAULA: Like I always say, “No cheese? No soul”.

Ina continues to stab away.

INA: Well, from then on, I made sure the cheese we bought was from ORGANIC COWS. He’s never even noticed.

PAULA: While Ina works on this piggy, I’m just gonna lower the turkey into this “deep fryer”, also called “vat of lard”.

INA: I used to send deep fried brownies every Monday to Jeffrey and his Manhattan roommate, Roy.

PAULA: Manhattan roommate?

INA: Yes—he—uh, yes, Jeffrey has a friend he shares an apartment with during the week. You know, just to uh—just to have some company.

Paula stares at her for a moment.

PAULA: You know another thing I like to do when I’m stressed?

INA (now with pig’s blood all over her teal oxford, as well as her hands and neck): Yes, Paula?

PAULA: A little Southern game my family likes to call “Bob for donuts in a vat of lard/peanut oil”.

INA: I could never…

Paula rolls out the vat and takes off the lid, pouring some green apples inside.

PAULA: It’s easy! All you do is dunk your head.

INA: Jeffrey never even liked bobbing for apples at the Halloween parties I throw in the Hamptons. He thought it was lowbrow whenever I tried it.

PAULA: FUCK JEFFREY AND GET YOUR FACE IN THAT LARD.

Ina sticks the knife inside the back of the pig and clasps the sides of the vat.

INA: I will.

She sticks her head into the brown liquid, raising her head in a triumphant display of donut-mouth. Her eyes turn black and she roars.

Paula pours more vodka into her pink mystery drink.

PAULA (cackling): There ya go you crazy bitch!

ENTER GIADA DE LAURENTIIS.

Giada carries a tray of fresh chopped salad.

GIADA: Hello, ladies.

Paula looks at the camera.

PAULA (muttering as she takes a sip): Oh, hell.

GIADA: I thought I’d stop by. I just made this salad from the herbs I grow out back and—oh, oh my God.

Her eyes trail as she sees the dead pig on the counter. She drops the salad. Giada jumps up onto the table and crouches, her eyes become blood red and fangs lower out of her opened mouth. She bellows an inhuman cry.

GIADA: PIG FLESH.

Giada bites into the pig and begins feeding. Ina continues to roar and search tirelessly for the donuts.

Paula raises her glass to the camera and smiles, chocolate sauce seeping through her teeth.

CUT TO BLACK.

END SCENE

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