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Who the hell am I ?
Who the hell are you?

Warren was no lady's man.
He detested 99% of the female gender for their flightiness, their disloyalty, and all their imperfections. (Whiney girls, especially.) When he was in love he was miserable. He hated having a girlfriend, a mistress, or a wife, and he had finally decided that there was no woman alive who could meet his high standards. This momentous decision was made one Friday afternoon, while sitting alone in a booth at Denny's, drinking coffee and eating toast, loathing women and hating life.

         As he absent-mindedly scraped some whipped butter that really wasn't butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that onto his toast, he thought to himself: "Why couldn't I have been a sponge?"

Enter Jacques Cousteau: "...Beecause zee sponges, you zee, reproduce asexuallee! Zey can fertilize zemselves, and zus, no partner eez needed."
Warren: "Right, so what you're saying is that sponge dudes don't have to waste any time searching for sponge chicks? Awesome!"
Jacques Cousteau: "However, whenever zee sponge gets a leetle too excited, it gives birth to a zousand leettle sponge creeters. And zat's a lot of creeters!"
Warren: "You can say zat again!"

"That still doesn't solve my problem, though," he mumbled to himself. Warren picked up the knife again along with the plate of whipped butter that really wasn't butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that, and he began to sculpt a tiny little woman into the soft, yellow cream.

         First he sculpted a face for her. He traced her a lovely silhouette and proceeded to give her the most delicate of features. He manipulated the nose into an adorable, pert little shape, made her lips full and irresistably kissable, gave her eyes full of warmth that seemed to sparkle, even though they were made out of whipped butter that really wasn't butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that, and he carved out thick, golden strands of the softest, flowing hair that even outdid the coiffures of the models in the classiest of shampoo commercials.

         Then, being mightily pleased with his creation so far, Warren ventured to complete the rest of her body. He made her neck smooth and serene, and her shoulders and arms ideal for tender, loving embraces. Her breasts were made to be round and firm, and her softly rounded belly ticklish. He sculpted her with sweet, rolling curves, leading down to her round, velvety thighs and to her legs so silkenly smooth that rough human flesh could never come close matching their texture. In short, she was perfect.

         "I think I love you," Warren confessed, enraptured by the supreme beauty of his tiny creation.

         "I love you too," spoke the splendorous woman-sculpture, despite the fact that she was made out of whipped butter that really wasn't butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that.

         Warren shrieked like a girl. "You're alive!"
What are you doing over there?" asked a nosy waitress.

         "I can't believe this! This is a miracle!" he continued to cry out.

         The waitress peered over his shoulder at his sculpture. "This guy's making obscene pictures in the butter!" she exclaimed, loud enough for everyone in Denny's-- and even some of the people in the parking lot--to hear.

         "Pervert!" the people shouted out. They all disdained him with mean expressions, except for Joe, who really wanted to see the picture.

         "Let me see!" demanded Joe.

         "No, leave us alone!" Warren yelled, pushing him away. "I want you!" he firmly told the woman who was made out of whipped butter that really wasn't whipped butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that.

         "You're crazy!" she shrieked. As Warren leaned over to lick her and taste her sweet, buttery skin, she squirmed and writhed to evade his tongue, but she couldn't move off the plate she was confined to, because she and the whipped butter that really wasn't whipped butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that were one and inseparable. His overly-excited tongue made one furious lick that wiped out half of her entire body.

         "Aieeee!!" screamed the sculpture helplessly.

         "Don't wreck it!" Joe demanded. "I want to see it first!"

         "He's licking the dirty picture he drew in the butter!" announced the waitress, evoking horrified stares and catcalls of 'Sicko!' and 'No Pee-wee Herman's allowed!' "Get outta here you pervert!" she ordered him. "Go play kissy-face with your butter somewhere else."

         "Can I lick it?" pleaded Joe. "Please?"

         "Go away, kid!!" Warren boomed. He dashed out of the restaurant, clutching the plate with his sculpture.

         "No!!" chirped out the woman who was made out of whipped butter that really wasn't whipped butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that, or at least what was left of her, and frankly she wasn't very pretty anymore. She had tongue marks all over her. "Don't bring me outside!"
Finally outside, Warren was relieved to be rid of the pesky restaurant heathens. They didn't understand! All they could feel for him was hate, just because he was different. Their small intellects wouldn't allow them to see how a man could fall in love with his butter-sculpture and still be as content as they were with their conventional, "unsinful" forms of love. And then he realized his folly all too late--

         "I'm melting! Agghgh... I'm melting!" cried out the woman who was made out of whipped butter that really wasn't whipped butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that in agony, because after all, she WAS made out of whipped butter that really wasn't whipped butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that.

         "Oh no! I'm so sorry!" Warren crumpled to his knees and began to weep.

         "You're such an idiot! You bastard idiot imbecile! I can't believe I ever loved you! I hate you! Why, if I weren't sitting here melting right now, I would thrash the living daylights out of you! I would rip out that vile tongue of yours and make you eat it... through the wrong end! Then I would pluck both your eyeballs out and stick them in your ears and steal your nose and hide it in mailbox! And futhermore--"

         "Are you dead yet? Melt already!" Warren had ceased to weep. He smeared away the sculpture so that it was nothing more than an indistinguishable slather of whipped butter that really wasn't whipped butter at all, but a margarine-substitute, and a poor one at that. "Women!" he scowled. "Blast their entire gender!" And he walked away, smoking a cigarette and trudging along, loathing women and hating life.