Little Butters Willoughby was as much of a celebrity in Shartlesville as one could be in a town of just two thousand people. Butters was not exactly a common name in Shartlesville, or anywhere else in the world for that matter. His namesake resulted in dozens of schoolyard beatings from elementary school through graduate school, oftentimes with the long wooden sticks used to churn his namesake. Little Butters Willoughby did not let these beatings get to him, even when they left him battered and bruised like a stick of stale butter.
Butters’ parents did not for one second consider the life full of humiliation they were dooming their son to when they decided upon his name. Mrs. Margarine Willoughby and Mr. Creamer Willoughby conceived their son while messing around in the bucket they used to churn their own butter, as they so often did after watching the newest episode of Wheel of Fortune.
Exactly eight months, seventeen days, and four hours after Mr. Willoughby “buttered” too soon, their son was delivered by Shartlesville’s only doctor, a man by the name of Dr. Fists. Not a single citizen of Shartlesville knew Dr. Fists’ first name, nor did they enquire. Dr. Fists had a German accent, and as the people of Shartlesville (as well as the rest of the world) know, people with German accents are frightening.
Dr. Fists’ medical practices were just as frightening and foreign to the people of Shartlesville as his accent. When Harry Plums, the town’s smith, cut his thigh open on a rusty nail, Dr. Fists placed several snails over the cut, and told Plums that, “Ze snails’ slime vill seal ze cut right up.” Harry Plums died four days later. Nobody asked any questions, because Harry Plums was a dick, and Dr. Fists’ German accent was scary.
When little Butters Willoughby was ready to bust his way out of Margarine, Dr. Fists made the house-call to the Willoughby residence. Creamer Willoughby opened the front door to see Dr. Fists carrying nothing but an industrial-sized stick of butter and a blender. Due to the fact that Creamer Willoughby was a simple man, he placed his faith in Dr. Fists’ fists and showed him the way upstairs.
Having never given birth before, Margarine Willoughby was not having the best time of her life. Little Butters did not feel so little, and her screams of pain were concerning to the group of Shartlesville citizens milling about in their backyard, anxious for a show. Shartlesville never had a great deal happening, so the birth of a new resident was the most exciting thing since the bearded lady from the circus moved into town several months prior. The town’s cotton-candy salesman, Luther Leith, had set up shop next to the Donnolly outhouse and was making a small fortune.
“I vill need your best pail or bucket,” Dr. Fists told Creamer as they walked upstairs. “Bring it to ze room where your vife is laying, and place it on ze floor.” Creamer Willoughby nodded in agreement and rushed right back down the stairs to the basement, where he searched for their best pail or bucket. The closest bucket was the one he had recently painted the new baby crib with, so Creamer dumped the month-old, lead paint out on the floor and sprinted back upstairs.
“This is the best I could do,” he panted as he burst into the delivery room. “I didn’t have time to wash the rest of the lead paint out, but I hope this is alright.”
“It is perfect,” Dr. Fists stated, “the lead in the paint is proven to be very healthy for a newborn baby and will ensure its good health for many years to come.”
Creamer Willoughby smiled at his wife as she sweat bullets and breathed heavily. Next to the bed on which she lay, Dr. Fists was unwrapping the enormous stick of butter and shoving fistfuls of it into the blender.
“A buttery birth is ze best birth,” Dr. Fists shouted as the blender churned the chunks and spew globs of butter all over the room. “Ze butterier, ze better!” The process of blending, pouring it into the bucket, and repeating the process was interjected with bouts of Dr. Fists ramming fistfuls of butter down Margarine Willoughby’s throat, screaming, “Eat ze butter! It vill help lubricate your insides!” and eating chunks of it himself. Creamer Willoughby began vomiting uncontrollably until his stomach had nothing left to give.
Dr. Fists took note of Margarine’s now constant contractions and guided her over to the bucket, having her squat over it like a bodybuilder at the Olympics, getting ready to squat a great deal of weight. Her screams of agony amplified, leaving her husband Creamer curled up in the fetal position in a pool of his own vomit, with his hands over his ears.
With a sound like a wet suction cup being pulled off of a window, the child fell out of Margarine and plopped into the bucket of butter. “Wait!” Dr. Fists exclaimed, shoving Creamer Willoughby to the side when he leapt to his feet and tried to grab his baby out of the bucket. “Ze child must prove to us it has ze will to live!”
The three adults stood with bated breath and tense muscles as the butter bubbled and seconds turned to hours. Just as Creamer was about to cave and rescue his son, little Butters Willoughby breached the butter with all the majestic grace of an orca whale, and his cries began to fill the room. From his open mouth spewed an endless stream of butter and turquoise lead paint, but he was alive.
Little Butters Willoughby was born.