Hello, my name is Evangeline Yurt and I’m a woman in a nonfat yogurt commercial.
You know how you feel after spending a long day leaping through a meadow and twirling around in silken fabrics with your friend Jill who is wearing the sexiest tampon on earth? Do you ever feel… an emptiness? What you might call… a lack? A desperate wanting of something with a sort of, slippery gelatinous texture?
We’ve all been there before. I know I have. After rocking my twin girls Isabelle and Vaseline asleep, sometimes I stare out at my marble kitchen island and wonder what it’s all really about. My dear husband Thad has not returned from his job as a man who speaks loudly on a Bluetooth in an elevator all day.
I feel… hungry. Even after my usual dinner of three glasses of hot water and one whole lemon. Swallowing the lemon is difficult because I have such a long, swanlike neck. It is so fucking long.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it: a cheesecake has materialized on my kitchen island, like magic. I haven’t eaten a cheesecake since 1993, which also happens to be the last time I took a shit. The cheesecake is unspeakably erotic. It is soft, yet firm, supple, yet smooth, like the skin on my long-ass neck. I reach for the cheesecake and prepare to dig my fingers into its meat—
“Mummy, I can’t sleep. May I have a lemon to swallow?” It’s Vaseline. She has awoken from one of her night terrors. Oh, sweet Vaseline. I pray to God she didn’t see me just now about to commit a sin of the flesh.
As I tuck her back into bed, I marvel at my own idiocy. Evangeline, you chubby, worthless cunt. You were about to throw it all away, risk it all. And for what? A mouthful of cheese? I throw the cheesecake into the fireplace, and hold my hand over the embers, just to feel something.
And yet. I am still hungry. I open the fridge door to fetch a lemon, when I see it: a container of nonfat yogurt in the flavor… key lime pie. The label says: “All of the fun, none of the guilt!” Isn’t this what you want, Evangeline, you pleasure-seeking, hedonistic whore? I’m like if the Greek God Dionysus could do Pilates.
I peel back the lid. Inside is a green substance which defies physics. Not quite liquid, not quite solid. It can only be described as “gloop.” I take the world’s smallest spoon and scoop up the yogurt.
What I taste is… indescribable. It’s sinful. It’s indulgent. It’s… sour. It really is very sour. But also… grainy? An absolute orgy of flavors and textures. I begin to devour the gloop. Savor it, Evangeline! I force myself to spend five full minutes on each spoonful. I am making love to this nonfat yogurt. This dairy product satisfies me in a way no man has.
Thad steps into the kitchen. I panic, and reflexively throw a carving knife at him. It stabs him through the heart. He is bleeding out. I look down at his twitching corpse. All of the fun… none of the guilt.
I scrape the last bit of yogurt out of its plastic container as I sink my husband in our above-ground indoor pool.
I sit for a moment. Just a woman and her yogurt.
I stare and watch the pool turn to red.
Finally… I am full.