Fried Chicken & Lime Jello, the Dr. Bjornsen story - SCP Foundation

Listen.

First thing first, I have absolutely no idea who Dr. Bjornsen is. I might, it is possible he's the guy I just clocked in the face with a sock with a brick innit, but evidence regarding this matter remain inconclusive for the moment.

I mean, sure, he has a name tag with "Dr. Bjornsen" on it, and sure, his wallet is filled with lovely pictures of him and his family, all conveniently tagged "Dr. Bjornsen and Beloved Family+ Despised Parakeet (Boy Oh Boy, I Sure Hope No One Clocks Me in the Face with a Sock with a Brick Innit)", but would you really trust a guy who tags his own family pictures? Using Helvitca font? I sure wouldn't. That's why I clocked him in the face with that sock-and-brick combo meal to begin with. It makes sense, shut up.

So, about the chicken. I don't actually eat chicken, I heard it's filled with all sorts of hormones that make the chickens grow like five breasts and ten wings and an inner, baleful third eye. Not that I mind the animal cruelty involved, god knows chickens have it all coming and more, but I have this rare phobia for animals with more than twice the number of body parts, but less than ten times as many. That, and third eyes give me the heaves.

This leaves the jello, at least if you want the title of this particular story to make any sort of sense. Well, that's actually an interesting story. See, when I was in the first grade, my homeroom teacher (a fantastic woman by the name of Miss Veronica Jerky) had us each prepare a traditional dish of our family's for the annual class picnic. Now, Miss Jerky wasn't to know that I came from a family of South Samothricans, and that our traditional foods consist entirely of various fried dishes of tungsten, so obviously I couldn't bring that to class. On my dear old mum's suggestion, however, I decided that a proper alternative would be a nice big bowl of lime jello.

Needless to say that as a twelve years-old first grader I had no real idea of how to actually make said dish, and mum didn't know either what with her entirely tungsten-based diet, so I had no real choice but to consult an expert. That expert happened to be my great uncle Brett, who I now suspect was not really my uncle, what with him being a ten-foot tall rock that was standing in the middle of our yard. Regardless of blood relations though, Brett was known around the neighborhood to be a world-class maker of all things lime-jello related. Well, I say around the neighborhood, but I'm really only talking about our street. And when I say our street, I mean my house. And when I say house, I mean I figured asking him would be a good idea.

So anyway, I go to Brett and I ask him how to make the jello for my class picnic, but Brett doesn't answer. Now, you might think this was because he was a rock, but Brett was usually as loquacious as any rock you'd ever meet, so this silence on his part was very unusual. I mean, to be fair I wasn't being very polite, what with me starting the conversation by calling him a rat bastard and basically demanding the recipe under threat of whiffle bat, but you'd expect a mature individual like grand uncle Brett to look past that and help a kid out. Long story short, he only agreed to tell me how to make the jello after I took out my stone grinder and sliced me a nice piece of Brett. That's the origin of the brick portion of the brick-in-sock combo I just applied to the suspected Dr. Bjornsen, if any of you were curious.

So I have the jello, and the class picnic is here, and there I am in my Thursday best with my bowl of jello at Hatsfield Park. All the other students are there too, but we can't find Miss Jerky nowhere. This makes us very worried, of course, since Hatsfield Park is where we buried our previous homeroom teacher and we don't like the idea of Miss Jerky sniffing about there, so we go look for her.

So there I am, crawling through the bushes with my Thursday best and my bowl of jello and getting dried leaves and lizards on and in both, when I come across the strangest scene. See, I crawl out of the bush near the statue commemorating the battle of Lukewarm Point (which is the pride and joy of the park, needless to say) and there I find Miss Jerky, all wrapped up. Now when I say "all-wrapped up", I mean that very literally, as the poor woman was stuck in what I can only describe as a seething cauldron of gauze-snakes. If you've never seen a gauze-snake, well, they're like snakes, but made outta gauze. Miss Jerky is naturally not very happy with this turn of affairs, and she's struggling and cursing and casting cantrips all over the place. But the gauze snakes they don't let up, since they reproduce by turning people into mummies and this was in the middle of their mating season.

Am I rambling? Nah, not possible, I'm like the most concise story teller to ever set foot on this teal, square earth. Which reminds me, did I ever tell you the story of how I got this sock? No? Well, I'm not gonna, since it's a personal story and not fit for the earholes of the likes of you. I mean, just look at yourselves, reading this bullshit when there are so many better things you could do. Me, for example, I docked an alleged Scandinavian PhD with in the face today. I bet none of you people can claim the same. Bet you never even had a sock, let alone a brick. You strike me as sandal people, and everyone knows sandal people cannot be trusted. Like the wood. Fuck sandalwood.

Continue with the jello story, you say? Well, I was going to, but now I'm not in the mood anymore. So instead I'm going to tell you about something else. Let's see, what should I tell you about… ah! Got it! I will sing you a little song! It's my favorite, so listen carefully:

There… once was a man named Mr. Lizard

Who once had a bone stuck in his gizzard

He fell down a well

He died and he smelled

Then everyone died in a blizzard

Yeah. Bet that blew your MINDS.

Hrm. I have like a thousand words more to go if I wanted to use them, but honestly I figure most of you already tuned off like a while ago, so no real reason to bother. Instead, I will end this with something a bit different. My final piece of art:

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|I|f| |i|t| |h|a|d|n|'|t| |b|e|e|n| |f|o|r| |C|o|t|t|o|n|-|E|y|e| |J|o|e| |I|'|d| |b|e|e|n| |m|a|r|r|i|e|d| |a| |l|o|n|g| |t|i|m|e| |a|g|o| |W|h|e|r|e| |d|i|d| |y|o|u| |c|o|m|e| |f|r|o|m|,| |C|o|t|t|o|n|-|E|y|e| |J|o|e|?|

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|W|h|e|r|e| |d|i|d| |y|o|u| |c|o|m|e| |f|r|o|m|,| |w|h|e|r|e| |d|i|d| |y|o|u| |g|o|?| |W|h|e|r|e| |d|i|d| |y|o|u| |c|o|m|e| |f|r|o|m|,| |C|o|t|t|o|n|-|E|y|e| |J|o|e|?|

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