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The Internet is a wonderful place. With message boards, chat rooms, search engines, forums and social networks, it’s a phenomenal way to let yourself be heard. It’s also a phenomenal place to hear some of the things being heard. The terrifying, weirdly sexualized, and unnecessary musings of the Internet that will often never see the light of day. Enter our new column, designed to unearth some of the most fascinating aspects of the web; fan fiction.

This week we visit lustful words about one of the culinary world’s most beloved and buttered chefs, the titanic-in-size-and-scope star, the one and only Paula Deen. While I’m guessing most of my relatives won’t read this piece (thanks for the support, Dad), should any of them stumble upon this one day I hope they realize what a journalistic treasure they have in the family. What did I do at work today? Oh, just critiqued a piece of web literature about Paula Deen masturbating with a stick of salted butter. Let it never be said they didn’t raise a lady.





Paula Deen’s Salty Secret by TimeyWimeyWizardStuff

Kicking off this week with a bang, somehow author TimeyWimeyWizardStuff (props for the name) managed to write what I hope is the most disturbing Paula Deen fan fiction out there; our cooking queen races off the set of her show to spend some alone time with a stick of salted butter. Before we get to incest, we have to somehow wrap our heads around the logistics of a stick of microwaved butter maintaining its rigid consistency inside a vagina. I’m no scientist but I’d wager it gets pretty hot in both a microwave and Paula Deen’s fun zone, so I’m going to focus on this and try not to think about the part where her son walks in and joins her. *shivers*

Choice lines:

“Everything appeared to be normal from the outside, but little did the audience know that before the show, during breaks, and after the show, Paula had a salty secret.”

“She moved it in up and down motions, side to side, wash-machine style. The speed of the butter running throughout her increased and she wanted to scream, it made her feel so alive.” (I really don’t think this is possible.)

“She made mental note to buy this brand of butter again.”

“‘One night when I was little, after dad had left, I heard this awful suction noise coming from your room,’ Paula blushed, ‘I cracked open the door and saw your hand going up and down, and the butter wrapper…I decided to try it and became addicted.’ Paula was still sitting there pantsless, speechless, and proud. Proud that she had taught her son so well, without even knowing it.”





Untitled by Geoff Lott

So just in case that last one wasn’t graphic enough for you, I’ve gone ahead and found one involving a three-way with a food-critic narrator, Paula, and Guy Fieri. Everything goes according to plan; spray tans, lavender hair, stomachs flopping against each other–you know, the usual–until something goes very wrong. So wrong I can’t even figure it out. Did Paula kill Guy? Did she eat his dick? Is she drugging them? Did the author have to include a yeast infection/baking joke? So many questions, so few answers. Thanks for nothing, Internet.

Choice Lines:

“You see, you haven’t had bacon until it’s been run under the sweat-drenched breast of Ms. Paula Deen.”

“My senses were crackling like funnel cakes in a deep-fryer thanks to the Ecstasy-infused crème fraiche I previously tongued from Paula’s open mouth.”

“Guy liked to do a bump, kill a few White Russians (he once actually choked a half-blind Ukrainian girl to death in Memphis), wait for things to get hot and heavy, then sort of blend into the background – as best a guy dressed like Ed Hardy’s special-needs step-son can – and Guy would tug at his vienna sausage while Paula and I hit the passion buffet.”

“My medically-induced soupbone is throbbing to the point of near pain, and she’s rocking back and forth on me like she’s churning butter.”

“‘No don’t you drop the batter on the griddle, hun. It’s not hot enough just yet. Yew hold onta that fer me, sweetloaf. When I need yer frostin’, my cake’ll be ready. I’m gettin’ up on my third orgasm herrrrr, HOLY WAFFLE HOUSE.’”




Untitled by Evil Mustache-Twirling Capitalist 

Considering the fact that this piece centers around the seduction of a young, virginal intern, I can’t help but think this is happening to someone like Kenneth from “30 Rock,” which all at once makes this both funnier and more scarring. (Bonus points for including a butter massage.)


Choice Lines:

“Jimmy opened the door, and what he saw before his eyes resembled a macabre, Southern food-junkies harem more than it did a make up room. Fried chicken gizards were strewn about the floor, like rose petals in a romantic bedroom. The lighting was very dim, save for two candles that gave off the aromas of sour cream.”

“‘Ever since you first started interning for my office, I’ve wanted you to take your long, meaty chicken wing and dip it all up in my batter.'”

“Paula then took a heaping scoop of her famous Garlic Mashed Potatoes, and dolloped it on to her vagina. ‘Feast, boy!’ she commanded.”

“’Paula, you know you took my virginity!’ he said to her gently. ‘YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HAW!’ she screamed in her signature tone.”


Terrible, right? I really am sorry for this one, you guys. Shhhhhh, no tears. To turn that frown upside down, let’s all take a walk down memory lane and revisit that one time Paula got hit in the face with a frozen ham (and not, you know, any of the terrifyingly sexualized things in this post… though I’m certain there’s a honey-glazed ham metaphor in at least one of these).