Blogprov: sk8dork
[archive: This is one of the first or so blogprov's that I attempted. I think it stands out as one of the better ones, at least in terms of plot. I edited it a little just because it lacked in ways I recognize now after writing more.]
Turkey gristle and macrame: How to dress your cat.
Terry stared at the monitor in disbelief. On the screen was an ebullient middle aged hostess whose smile looked like it would crack if she tried any harder. The woman had on a cooking apron and smock that was neatly trimmed with flowery embroidery and a nametag that read “Sally”. Below on Sally’s table was a cat dressed in a bright pink macramé sweater. Terry turned to the sound engineer beside him and asked him to turn up the volume on his soundboard and caught the last fragment of Sally’s frantic paragraph.
“And as you can see, Mr. Fluffykins just adores his little garment, so I went ahead and made him a new winter wardrobe.”
She swung open a closet behind her which displayed a variety of sweaters, from puke green to a very lovely yellow smiley face number. Terry yelled into his headset to cut the feed, but no response came. He fumbled around with the back panel on it and discovered that the battery had died. “Jesus Christ, that fucking psychopath”, he screamed, realizing his unfortunate luck too late. He was positive that this was the end of his career in broadcasting. He’d be lucky to get a job on public access at 3 in the morning. He could only stand in horror as his host sank deeper into a scented candle and decorative insanity.
“Finally, I know all you wives out there are wondering if there are more interesting ways to spice up those leftovers. I know I have. And with Mr. Fluffykins help, I’d like to show you. Behind me I’ve already preheated the oven to 350°. Now the first step is to generously baste your cat, just like I’m doing here, and then take your remaining turkey gristle and weave it into the macramé. The cat may struggle a bit. Don't get discouraged, as this is all apart of the joy of cooking! If you like, try and tie some of it around the ankles and tail, for a more classy presentation. Remember, just because they’re leftovers, doesn’t mean they have to look like leftovers!”
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” cried Terry. He ran out of the booth towards the stage. The crew looked on in a dazed stupor, safe in the knowledge that it wasn't their asses on the line. The winding hallways and human traffic proved difficult for Terry, whose sense of direction was modest at best. Finally, the doors on the set burst open, with Terry flailing his body at Sally before she could place the kitty tray into the oven. The crew snapped back to attention, and quickly cut to 10 minutes worth of commercials. Mr. Fluffykins stared emotionless at the scene of the lumpy chef and her curmudegon producer rolling around and finally being dragged away by security. The cat paused to think, then set about the the long, arduous task of eating the turkey from the sweater.
