Chapter Seven
“Never mess with a baby sporting a Fu Manchu.”
I'm standing in this kitchen that looks oddly familiar. Everywhere I look there are little, dark-haired babies in chef hats.
Am I having a psychotic break?
Oh god, my therapist was right! I DO need Prozac!
The babies are running around this kitchen and seem to be chaotically cooking some type of chicken dish. Chicken cacciatore maybe? I then realize that the kitchen uncannily resembles the Jersey Shore house. Oh! Maybe it's Sunday dinner and these are all of Snooki's kids!
I thought she only had one baby, though. What's that baby's name? Lonnie… Leon… Luigi… I know its L-something. So how did she end up with this many babies?! Holy shit, that Gianni must have some powerful spunk!
“Snooook? Vin? JWOWW?” I scream over the crowd of cooking midgets.
I look down and notice that the baby to my left is scowling at me under his tiny Fu Manchu while furiously chopping a green pepper. Wow, he sure looks like an angry little man. Where is this child's mother? I bet she'd shit herself if she found her creepy Fu Manchu-wearing baby using a butcher's knife.
“Hey, little buddy. Why don't you go ahead and hand me the knife?” I calmly ask the scowling baby with a disturbing amount of facial hair.
Uh, oh. Baby Fu Manchu looks pissed. Really, really pissed.
He stops chopping his pepper and proceeds to yell some sort of baby-talk code word, and then all hell breaks loose. All of the babies stop what they're doing and seem to be yelling profanities at me. Now they're running towards me! Oh my god! These babies are coming after me! I'm going to die by the hands of Snooki's kids!
Damn you, Gianni and your nuclear spooge!
“AHHHHHHHHHH!” I'm screaming at the top of my lungs as I attempt to run away from the midget mob. “AHHHHHH! SNOOKI, YOUR FUCKING KIDS ARE GOING TO KILL ME! AHHHHHHH!”
Then I can barely hear someone saying, “Elle! Elle! Wake up!”
Snooki's little bastards start to slowly fade away and I open my eyes to the familiar surroundings of my bedroom in my and Amy's apartment. The July summer sun is shining through my curtains, and my eyes squint in reaction.
I was dreaming. Oh thank god.
I've always thought dying in a fire was the absolute worst way to go, but now I'm thinking that being burned at the stake by Snooki's Fu Manchu-wearing little bastards is definitely the worst way to die.
I notice that Amy is sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at me curiously.
“What was that all about, Elle? You were thrashing around and screaming about Snooki having bastards that were conceived from super spunk. I told you we shouldn't have had tequila last night. You always have the weirdest dreams when you drink tequila. And I told you that Jersey Shore marathon was a bad idea last week.”
“Don't get snippy with me. I love tequila, and that mind-numbing bitch loves me. Tequila and I are the best of friends, and you will never suggest that I quit her!” I wail as I attempt to slowly sit up and lean against my headboard.
“Chill out, dickhead. No need to re-enact Brokeback Mountain on my account.”
I roll my eyes at my sarcastic asshole of a friend and look down to realize I'm currently sporting a white t-shirt that has “Shirley Swallows” sloppily written in black sharpie and nothing else.
What happened last night?
“First of all, I owe you an apology because I honestly didn't realize how serious you and tequila were about each other. Secondly, as much as you love that crazy bitch, tequila makes you dream the creepiest shit. Last time you drank tequila, we had an hour-long discussion on why you had a dream that you gave Honey Boo Boo shaken baby syndrome,” Amy says while attempting to find a pair of my pants on the floor.
“Hey there, Ms. Judgy. I was seriously freaked out from that dream about Honey Boo Boo! That little pageant queen was so pissed that I'd taken her Red Bull and Pixy Sticks away that she threatened my life! I honestly had no other choice but to shake the ever-living shit out of her. I still don't understand how a grown child hopped up on energy drinks could get shaken baby syndrome.”
I slide on the pair of black yoga pants Amy threw on my bed and attempt to stand up without falling face-first into the hardwood floor.
“Calm down, crazy. There is no explanation for that, because it was a dream. A tequila dream at that. Anyways, I think Honey Boo Boo might already have shaken baby syndrome,” Amy says with a smirk before she walks out of my bedroom.
“Tequila does not make me dream crazy shit!” I scream at the top of my lungs towards the hallway, which unfortunately causes a throbbing pain inside my skull.
“Denial is the first step towards realizing you have a problem!” Amy yells back.