The kitchen smelled like India, or at least

The kitchen smelled like India, or at least what I hoped India smells like. "Is that butter chicken?" he asked with a twinge of hunger in his voice.

"I wish," I said, smiling wistfully. "Actually, it's just leftover nuggets I microwaved." Secretly, I wished she were here, so that the kitchen would live up to its aroma. She was

one gorgwous layer. Chocolate brown, with a huge breast and a beak that other birds would kill for. As indeed they did. I went to the coop one day to find her lifeless Chantecler

plucked and comatose. I lovingly scooped up her beautiful, cold body and thought to myself how sad it was but at least now we could have honey roasted chicken breast.

Although on second thought, honey mustard sounded better. Nothing like that tangy flavor with the slight heat of

chili powder to compliment the natural sweetness of human flesh. All that was left was to decide between rare and medium rare. There is nothing worse than an overcooked slab of

human hock. It got rubbery the closer to well done it got, plus the hair started burning and there's nothing worse than the smell of burnt hair - especially rogaine infused as his

scalp looked like an industrial dumping ground in New Jersey. He'd put Rogaine, Armor-all, even that spray-paint hair on his head. His scalp was teaming with life, and it

matched his godawful sweater that looked like a color wheel sneezed on him. 'How do I look?' he quite honestly asked

"urrmm interesting", she said. But it was too late. She stared, mouth agape, and when she was hypnotized, he had her undress and balance on the chair. The inlaws were surprised.