The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Sausage Party

Part of me is telling me not to ask questions and just slowly back away from this whole thing, but even I must admit that this whole shebang is picking my curiosity, not the least is what I can assume is Okayden, sitting across from me, loudly munching pickles straight from the jar. 

And not breaking eye contact even once. 

The atmosphere is as thick and cold as a bowl of jelly some idiot kid puts on a freezer to make ice cream popsicles with daddy's "special nose sugar" that he sells to his kindergarten buddies, only to end up with three fractures, a kid stuck in an anthill, and one 4-year-old girl who now thinks she can go down the toilet like like that Italian plumber video game fuck. That was a weird Tuesday. 

On one end, the pickle muncher, on the other, the depressive soft-boy, and on the stove, sausage McGee. This is not what I thought my sleepover would turn out to be. I mean, I knew this was going to be a sausage fest, but I didn't mean it literally. 

Speaking of, the silence is finally broken when Hayden places a plate of steaming, hot, juicy sausages in front of Okayden, which begins to devour them one by one. 

"Uh...you okay there, buddy?" I ask Hayden. 

He, on the other hand, looks like he had just seen his parents being murdered in an alley behind the theater, and the perpetrator definitely pulled his mom's pearl necklace while doing it — a mixture of hot vengeance, shame, and sadness. And yes, I did a Batman reference. That doesn't count as recent pop culture though. You can't take two steps before stumbling into the corpse of a Wayne parent. Sue me. 

"Brother, do I look okay?" says Hayden, looking perfectly okay, all things considered. "This...beast, this brute, this animal, has forced my hand into making a sin! Sausages are not to be boiled, but roasted! I told him that my sausages are big, thick, and juicy, and they would melt in his mouth. But no, he demanded them to be boiled. I refuse to give him any more of my sausages after this!" 

"hayden's sausages do melt in your mouth," whispers Brayden, who, having lost the will to live, is planking face-first on the table, mostly trying to catch some exotic disease from them, I'm sure. These tables look like they haven't been cleaned since humans collectively decided that asbestos wasn't as cash money as they thought it was. 

That doesn't deter Okayden who continues to gobble the sausages like a cheerleader—you know what? Maybe I won't finish that sentence. He does stop for a second, taking a deep breath before opening his mouth snout thingy wide open to reveal a set of serrated teeth. All of them, from front to back, were jagged and serrated. 

"I have bad teeth, see?
Vampire and werewolf, all mixed
Make for sore, soft gums."

I get where he's getting from. Those teeth look like murder, with no molars in sight. Also, what the fuck?

"That's no excuse to boil a sausage!" says Hayden, smashing his palm on the table and making everything in it — Brayden included — to shift afoot to the right. "You apologize to the pig for doing his funky fresh taste a disfavor." 

But he doesn't. He just continues to gobble sausages, boiled and all. 

"At least have some relish..." Hayden whispers, to no avail. 

And silence falls again. This is maybe time to address the elephant in the room. 

"So, you're not gonna eat us? Drink our blood?" I ask. 

"munch our butts?" asks Brayden, who, seeing that his eventual viral death is not coming as fast as he would like, is now licking the table. "i wouldn't mind you munching my butt a little."

I might have to revisit that straight twink theory a bit later. For now, maybe not making any sudden movements is the way to go. 

It is only after finishing his plate of limp sausages that Okayden speaks up.