Or the one in which Ino watches Sakura get beaten to a pulp while she has a series of increasingly irrelevant flashbacks about what great friends they used to be.
Naruto is increasingly ace. It also reduces me to tears on a worringly ferquent basis.
Look, I’m tired of your pathetic cake jokes, m’kay? I mean the vast majority of them aren’t even jokes are they? They’re Proustian madeleines, reminding you of something very personal only you and the elect understand; they’re just you saying the word cake and then giggling like a schoolgirl doped up with nitrous oxide and poppers (innocent m’lud, I have access no to NO2). You make me ashamed of my virtual friends, you really do.
So I’m going to supply for you, my lovely overly self-referential chums, a near-complete set of cake and baking-related puns, just so we don’t have to mention the c-word again. Between us we might raise the tone, leaven the atmosphere, even come up with something not half-baked. There is little margerine for error, so don’t tell your friends these jokes are stollen and work on a knead to dough basis; most importantly avoid loafing about like bloody spongers (the Devil makes food c*** for idle hands, according to Eccles-iatisicals anyway) and if you can’t think of one that doesn’t provoke an icy/frosty response, make a joke about something simnaler. If you can’t think of anything, petit force yourself – it’s all grist to the mille-feuille after all.
(Sanity says: shit, this is degenerating rapidly. Finish him!.)
It’s a piece of c*** really. Just remember that Jaffa C***s are really tax-dodging biscuits.
Xavier’s face is under water. He’s holding his breath. The surface of the water is descending towards him and is warm around him. His chest floats up and he blows out, to keep himself down on the bottom. He does it noisily, gurgling water into his mouth as does; he’s not hiding. The water passes his lips and he keeps gurgling out the last of the air, the pocket in his mouth still full until he expels it rapidly. As the water descends it covers his skin with foam. He imagines sitting up, and looking at himself in the mirror and seeing himself all white foam and wiping it off to reveal the black beneath. He’s not black, but the image amuses him. In fact, when he does sit it’s a struggle, his thin flabby body struggling against the bath’s smooth sides. He looks at himself in the mirror and it’s like the first time. The foam isn’t evenly distributed and he’s left with large lumps at the side of his head. Rather than a smooth covering, it looks like he has large tumours growing smoothly out of his flesh, John Merrick style, and it completes alters the make-up of his face, though not necessarily in a bad way. Now it looks interesting, large liquid eyes, thick lips, collapsed cheeks and a crooked jaw flowing into smooth white asymettries of tumours.