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The Mass Media

The Mass Media

The Collins Catering Company brings about the wrath of God

It’s Gordie, b—! Welcome back to Heaven’s kitchen. Last time, I hinted that the next dish I’d teach you would involve a corpse. While I could keep that promise, I’m in the mood for something a little more… biblical. So, sit back and relax—but if I catch you eating any of MY dried red paint chunks off of MY bench, I will have to ask you, politely, to leave.

I’ve been through a lot over the past few months. I even started my own catering business, The Cooking With Collins Catering Company, rightfully nicknamed “C4.” 

My last gig was…eventful. It was a Pastafarian-Catholic wedding, so naturally, there was a bit of controversy. The reception took place on Christmas Day, which angered the recently converted Pastafarian and bride-to-be, Marcelo Suárez-Orozco, who didn’t want to share an anniversary with the birth of a false prophet. 

However, Clump’s conceiver carried on with the ceremony, tying the knot with Pope “no-nuts” Francis after years of voyeur-filled voyages to the Vatican—the pair got together after Marcelo’s dog fiasco led to the discovery that Father Frankie’s a masochist.

They initially had plans to elope, believing Marcelo’s confirmation would be null and void, but they were able to marry in the Sistine Chapel, which was refurbished courtesy of me, myself and I.

To answer Robin Williams’ question, the Chapel smells like red paint. Why? Well, because I covered the entire place with it. It was the final touch Michaelangelo’s work needed.

Traditions were discarded, including the coveted “bridal toss.” However, Marcelo’s quick thinking and improv skills saved the day, continuing his own tradition by licking off Adam’s red-coated crown jewels in the “Creation of Adam” painting. Patrons were also provided their own souvenir crosses and Pastafarian clumps doused in—you guessed it—red paint. My cake, however, was the biggest hit. 

I made sure to bake it with as many red ingredients as possible. There are less ingredients than usual, but I’ve realized during my time in the culinary arts that less is more. That’s why I made a simple, sweet strawberry shortcake…with red paint as the frosting. I also injected it with Red no. 40, sprinkled it with red fiberglass and, to top it all off, used Marlboro Reds as candles, because I know that after a day that drags on forever, getting a nice ripski of a Nickelodeon stick hits. 

The people couldn’t get enough, and I realized I had gotten them hooked on anything and everything red. The walls were chewed off, and the chapel was in ruins. 

I felt like Picasso. It was my magnum opus. My masterclass. Eden and Judgment Day combined. But the man upstairs wasn’t amused. 

God was already in attendance for the wedding. He was enjoying himself, locked in as always and having a great time despite the sacrilegious festivities. But after he, as he would put it, “s— his robes like crazy,” and made a grand entrance from the upstairs bathroom, with bloody diarrhea dripping down his leg, he did the unthinkable. 

“I GIVE YOU THE GIFT OF COLOR 50 YEARS AGO AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?! THIS PLACE IS IN SHAMB…WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET YOUR TONGUE OFF MY LEG, FRANK!” 

The Pope didn’t care. His primal instincts were at full throttle. 

“WHAT KIND OF SICK, ‘ARISTOCRATS JOKE’ IS THIS? THIS ISN’T THE ROYAL FAMILY! THIS IS BARBARIC! BLASPHEMY, I TELL YOU! THAT’S IT! AS OF THIS MOMENT, PLANET EARTH IS BLACK AND WHITE ONCE AGAIN. GORDIE, MY OFFICE, NOW!”

His office was heaven, in case you were wondering.

“You were my prodigal son; my golden boy. I loved you with all my heart,” said God with bloody tears dripping down his eyes—the pearly gates covered in red paint. It felt like a test to me, like I was on an episode of “Punk’d.”

I was irate, feeling betrayed that he blamed me for his hypocrisy and cognitive dissonance, so when Archangel Michaelangelo told me the Lord’s blood was rainbow-colored, I knew what I had to do. 

I had to kill God. 

Before I could do anything though, Clump’s resurrected body already finished the job. He plopped himself in front of God, causing him to slip, fall flaming into the atmosphere, and become impaled on the Seattle Space Needle. His lifeless body hung there; his severed heart now adorning the very top of the needle. The rupture—and rapture—had begun. 

God let there be light, and color, once again. 

Every so often, his heart beats, attracting tourists and judgment day believers alike. They pray it’ll one day resurrect him, or explode. It’s the only remnant of the color red we have left.

Lucky for you, those nimrods are too boneheaded to realize primary colors can be created! My previous occupation as an embalmer paid off. I siphoned his blood! 

I got buckets of this sacred s— stored away! Now, let’s bake some cake, shall we? 

About the Contributor
Nick Collins, Sports Editor