Heathers Page #4

'Tomorrow I'll be kissing

her aerobicised ass

'but tonight let me dream of

a world without Heather,

'a world where I am free.'

You stupid f***.

You goddamn b*tch.

You were nothing before you met me.

You were playing Barbies with Betty Finn.

You were a Bluebird, you were a Brownie,

you were a Girl Scout Cookie.

I got you into a Remington party.

What's my thanks?

It's on the hallway carpet.

I got paid in puke.

Lick it up, baby. Lick it up.

Monday morning you're history.

I'll tell everyone about tonight.

Transfer to Washington,

transfer to Jefferson,

no one at Westerburg's gonna let you

play their reindeer games.

Dreadful etiquette. I apologise.

That's OK.

I saw the croquet set up in the back.

You up for a match?

I thank you.

That was my first game of strip croquet.

You're welcome.

It's a lot more interesting

than just flinging off your clothes

and boning away

on a neighbour's swing set.

There's lots to be said for throwing off...

What a night.

What a life.

They wanted to move me

into high school out of the sixth grade

because I was supposed to be

this big genius.

Then we decided to chuck the idea

because I'd have trouble

making friends, blah, blah, blah.

Now blah, blah, blah is all I do.

I use my grand IQ

to decide what colour gloss to wear

and how to hit three keggers before curfew.

Heather Chandler is one b*tch

that deserves to die.

Killing her won't solve anything.

I say we just grow up, be adults and die.

But before that...

I'd love to see Heather Chandler

puke her guts out.

Trust me, she skips

the Saturday morning trip to grandma's

even when she's not hung over.

We'll just concoct ourselves

a little hangover cure

that'll induce her to spew

red, white and blue, then.

What about milk and orange juice?

What's the up-chuck factor on that?

I'm a no-rust-build-up man, myself.

Don't be a dick.

That stuff will kill her.

I know, we can cook up some soup

and put it in a Coke.

That's pretty sick, eh?

Should it be chicken noodle

or bean with bacon?

Put a lid on that stuff.

I say we go with big blue here.

What are you talking about?

She would never drink anything

that looked like that, anyway.

So we'll... put it in this.

She won't be able to see

what she's drinking.

Let me get a cup, jerk.

OK.

Milk and orange juice.

Maybe we could, like, cough up

a phlegm globber in it or something.

- No?

- Nothing.

Oh, well. Milk and orange juice

will do quite nicely.

You're chicken.

You're not funny.

I'm sorry.

- Uh, Veronica?

- What?

Uh, never mind. I'll, er, carry the cup.

Morning, Heather.

Veronica... and Jesse James.

Quelle surprise.

Hear about Veronica's

affection for regurgitation?

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