~with 50x more super serial. Hey, this is Jork & Zygote. :D We really hope you like this.

And we are aware that Scuzzlebutt is dead. Whatevs.

Celery and Coffee Cake

Herbert Garrison enjoyed eating coffee cake every night. Every night, at exactly 4:30 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Mr. Twig would often criticize this peculiar habit, but Herbert had learned to ignore such reprimands.

And so. Coffee cake. Tantalizing and smooth, just like –

Why would a Mr. Herbert Garrison be so precise with his cake consumption, anyway? Well, 4:30 AM was the exact time he'd first seen Step By Step. That movie had changed his life; it had been the moment when his eyes were first blessed with the loveliness that could only be described as Patrick (middle name) Duffy. Years of unrequited love had not thwarted Garrison of his affections, and he would still feel that unmistakable compulsion every night, at 4:30 AM.

Patrick Duffy was his idol, and he had even gone so far as to learn a smorgasbord of trivia over the years, such things as "Patrick's favourite baked good is coffee cake."

And for this, Herbert Garrison thoroughly adored coffee cake.

One last, agonizing bite, and his fork was scraping against an empty plate. He felt his compulsions fade again. Mr. Twig snapped at him to go to sleep, and in his exhausted state Garrison found himself actually listening.

Throughout his life, he had often found himself ignoring those he loved the most. He blamed his father for molesting him so late in life. Hell, he pushed his own students away and regarded other people as wholly unimportant. In the face of his pursuit of The One Patrick Duffy, that One Lofty Goal in life, nothing else mattered. Nothing else could matter.

He pulled his pants on, one leg at a time, just as we all might do someday. Garrison adjusted his glasses, and zipped his obstinately bright green jacket up. It was time to face the most dreaded six hours of his day-to-day life.

Getting in his car, Garrison silently promised himself that he would not bring up Patrick Duffy in today's lesson plan. It would be hard, but it would be for his own good.

It was a promise that he knew he would be breaking.

"You know what I fucking hate?" eight year old Eric Cartman shouted, in between bites of Snacky Smores.

"What?" Clyde Donovan mumbled disinterestedly. The slightly-less-chubby brunet hoisted himself into his seat and sighed.

Cartman shoved three Smores into his mouth and began to chew rapidly. Clyde watched enviously.

"God, I hate Christina Applegate movies. She's a dumb bitch who was, what, in a fucking 80s sitcom! Why the hell is she still alive?"

Clyde nodded. "Yeah." He flipped his copy of Playboy open just as Mr. Garrison walked in.

"All right, children. Settle down." Garrison grabbed a piece of chalk and made his way toward the greenboard. There was a collective groan that pervaded the room.

He decided to start with math. Something completely unrelated to Patrick Duffy. Not that he was even thinking about Patrick Duffy in the first place.

The chalk screeched across the board. "What's 215 times 2?" he asked. Any eight year old would be able to solve that, right?

"430!" yelled a small voice in the back. Garrison didn't restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Of course the Chinese kid answered the math question.

"Very good, Kevin," he remarked dryly, and went to write another problem. "430." Suddenly his throat constricted and he dropped his chalk.

430. 4:30 AM. Patrick Duffy.

This was too much to handle. He glanced over the class, but could only see 23 Patrick Duffys sitting casually in their desks. Oh God, he wanted all of them!

Garrison yelped, turning to Bebe Stevens: a striking image of Patrick Duffy sweetly nestled in yellow locks. His eyes swivelled around the class, trying to find something that was free of his hallucinations. With relief he saw that Cartman was the regular fatass as always, borderline obese and obnoxious. But after a moment he could see the glorious Mr. Duffy plastered all over that succulently pudgy face...

My, God Garrison! You're turned on by Eric Cartman!

He screamed, and ran out the door.

"Um, Mr. Garrison, where are you going?" Wendy Testaburger (yet another Patrick Duffy, this time with straight black hair and more angular features) voiced, in a tone almost akin to that of concern.

He paid the third grader no mind and frantically dashed for the exit. He pushed through two heavy doors, barely making it outside in one hysterical piece. It was pouring rain, as it was in his heart.

Garrison scrambled across the lawn, half-slipping in the quickly forming mud. Tears poured from his eyes, merely masked by the continual flow of rain down his cheeks. Thoughts of the man he could not have ran through his head as he abruptly threw himself across the rain-ridden sidestreet, in one fluidly painful motion. He fell onto his stomach, face scraping against the concrete. His lips bled, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"PATRICK!" Herbert Garrison screamed through the trees, with an echo that seemed to recall the ancient thoughts of time.

Herbert wept.

The last thing he could see was a Patrick Duffy shade of black – so utterly, miserably alluring.

His eyes drifted open to a haze of colour. A refreshing scent – was that celery? – wafted from above, confusing his senses. Where was this celery infestation coming from? The lovely smell was soon joined by a loud, disgruntled snort. Herbert looked up to see a hideous malformation of man looming above.

"Hello?" he heard a smooth, almost melodic voice pierce into his consciousness. The angelic tones made his ears buzz pleasantly – he recognized that voice and that poignant smell of coffee cake! "Are you alright?"

Yes, he wanted to say, I'm more than all right, I'm heavenly! But the words were strangled within his throat. He couldn't accept that this was really happening. He waited for another sign.

"Sir, we're worried if you're hurt."

We? Was someone else there with him? Had he found himself a lover before Herbert had had a chance to lunge into this angel's life? The first sensations of unreasonable jealousy burned into his barely conscious mind.

"What is going on?" he managed to snap, after what seemed like an eternity of silence.

"You fell. I watched you from the forest, it was incredible. You were screaming something, what were you saying?"

"Uhm.. I was.. I was... PATRICK DUFFY!" The name burst from his insides, tore from his throat; and without further regard for sanity, he threw all of his emotion into those two beautiful words.

A pause. The voice seemed to be considering something. Garrison suddenly felt horribly, sickeningly embarrassed.

"You know me, sir?" The voice seemed interested, almost hopeful of Herbert's next words.

Herbert's eyes widened even further. He sat up against the wet concrete, breathing unevenly. He could only nod in an awkward, jerky fashion.

A smile crept across the man's face, which Garrison could now see belonged to the gorgeous Patrick Duffy.

But something was off. Patrick was at almost an uncomfortable angle. Upon further investigation, he could now see that Patrick was upside down. It was then that he heard that grunt again. It was almost a guttural roar, but he couldn't place where it was coming from.

"Scuzzey, shut up," Patrick groaned.

Herbert felt his insides turn to ice. Scuzzey? SCUZZEY? So Patrick Duffy did have a lover!

[Run. Run now and escape the humiliation that awaits you here.]

And he did. Bruised, bloodied, and, most regrettably, without his glasses.

"Shit, I can't see!" Herbert screamed, breaking into a run into the nearby forest. He pushed against trees, branches scraping him further until he fell. Again. And just like the last time, the rain began to pour. A reflection of his emotion and his soul. Torrential pain.

That night, he tried to put an end to the consumption of coffee cake. No more. He couldn't deal with all of this Patrick Duffy nonsense anymore.

4:20am. "No problem," Herbert spoke softly to himself, "it's just dessert. I'll occupy myself with something else."

4:25am. Mr. Twig crawled out of his drawer, ready to prepare a reprimanding speech. Herbert didn't notice, as his eyes were steadily trained on the clock upon the mantle. His hands tightened into fists and he strengthened his resolve. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and he felt his soul being torn by indecisiveness.

4:30am. (In present tense for extra drama.) He can't handle it. He needs it. He yearns for it.

"PATRICK DUFFY!" He ran to his refrigerator, knife in hand. He was ready to taste some of Patrick's favourite cake. He went to open the door.

...No cake.

Fuck.

Like an addict in withdrawal – no, he was an addict in withdrawal – he collapsed onto the floor. The excruciating sense of déjà vu cut through him like a cake knife.

It was morning. He pulled into his parking spot outside of South Park Elementary, a head full of Patrick Duffy and a stomach full of empty promises. He pushed himself through the doors and down the hall. He didn't deserve the ability to do such things.

He managed to get to his class, green jacket in hand, hell if he knew where his glasses were. Herbert didn't even bother to tell the class to settle down. He didn't even send Craig down to Mr. Mackey for flipping him off.

Kyle Broflovski and Cartman were arguing again, and Herbert didn't care.

"You know what you are?"

"What? What am I, Cartman?"

"You're a little Scuzzlebuttfucking Jew."

Scuzzlebutt?

Logical little Stan Marsh chimed in, "Scuzzlebutt? Do you really have to bring him up? I just stopped having nightmares." He pinched the bridge of his nose and planted his face in his textbook. "I hate you, Cartman."

"We all know," said Kyle rather righteously, "that no one can have Patrick Duffy as a leg, Cartman!"

Herbert jumped from his seat, "Boys. Stop slandering Patrick Duffy!"

"I'm just saying," said Cartman, "that Kahl is wrong. And," as an afterthought, "Scuzzlebutt is real. I saw him talking to Mr. Garrison yesterday. I filmed it with my Wellington Bear camera. Wanna see?" He pulled it out.

Quickly, thinking of a way to get his hands on this camera, Garrison said, "Eric Cartman. No toys in class! Hand it over now."

And with that, Herbert Garrison had a video of Patrick Duffy and his lover.

The lover that he planned to murder.

Sorry, but Godwerock.