Photo composite: Mike Vago

2016 has been a year of unspeakable horrors, like the cancellation of Castle and that movie you liked as a kid having girls in it now. But even these tragedies could scarcely prepare us for this new unearthly nightmare: Someone has written erotic fiction about Guy Fieri and Ted Cruz.


The unlikely and deeply disturbing pairing of bro-tastic TV chef and former Zodiac Killer, “Frosted Tips” sprung from the depraved minds of Lana Adler and Talia Lavin. The writers of this affront to all that is decent read the tale of disgust at New York’s Carmine Street Comics, which hosts regular readings of erotic fan fiction. We can only assume everyone in attendance has since descended into madness, roaming the streets, and tearing at their flesh.

The story of graphic sex between the distinguished gentleman from the Uncanny Valley and the spiky-haired purveyor of something called Donkey Sauce has spread through the internet like a flesh-eating virus, only more unpleasant. Web sites ranging from First We Feast, to The Braiser, to Death And Taxes have even printed sections of the lurid text, damning their readers to a fate worse than any dreamed of by Satan and all his minions. In the story, the wax mannequin come to life walks into the Times Square restaurant owned by the sentient cocktail of peroxide and Axe body spray. The chance meeting sparks something that resembles passion in the same unsettling way that Ted Cruz resembles a living human person.


An excerpt of the piece below, but don’t say you haven’t been warned:

He slipped his mirrored sunglasses from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, flipped up the lapels of his red leather vest, and strode out, his testicles as pendulous and winkled as his sour cream-laden tripled loaded baked potatoes. Cruz licked his thin, disquieting lips, attempting to dislodge the white ooze that had congealed there in his panic. Little did he know, that was not the only white ooze he would be dislodging on this fateful night. Amidst the soft filth-beds of over-salted linguine, the dried rivers of donkey and bluesabbi sauce covering their thrusting bodies, like the fluid of the womb. And thrust they did, their quivering flesh truly a sight of horrors that would melt the face of any onlooker with its pasty glare. Cruz, his face a mess of Fieri’s donkey love sauce… slammed his throbbing American flagpole—his horrible, horrible, horrible throbbing American flagpole, against Fieri’s prone and rippling flanks.


Two years from now, maybe three, as you crouch over a flickering garbage fire in what once was a thriving city, you might turn to see a desperate, bedraggled child, too young and pure to understand why our society collapsed so quickly and irrevocably. “How?” she asks, in a plaintive, pleading voice. You will find yourself unable to speak, but you will be forced, as you are every day of your blighted existence, to think upon the moment when it all began to fall apart. When you knew nothing would ever be good again. This, dear reader, was that moment.