the best story ever written ... ever.
today i saw the onion farm. it was a cold november morn. the dogs and cows were tucked away into their stockings and the hens in their coops. the onions were ripe and pungent, expelling an odour so strong it could skin a kitten. suddenly, i saw it. it jumped out of the fourth row of the onions, which by now were all filled with glade plug-ins. as the monstrosity loped toward me, it screamed in an unintelligible language. somehow, i knew it wanted to eat my toes. i dodged into one of the rows of onions with all 20 digits intact. it came close and closer. i could smell the remains of toes on its breath. onions dangled from its slack-jawed mouth. the onions, not eaten and still on their vines, stared at me with their soulful eyes. at least i think they were eyes. they could have been holes gouged out by a woodpecker of the season's past. i thought i was doomed. this gargantuan pink creature salivating down my neck, onions to the left and right as far as the eye could see. since it was to be my last moment on this earth, apart the five-year sabbatical on pluto, i decided to indulge in the sweet nectar of the onions. as soon as i sunk my incisors into this wondrous bread-like vegetable, a strange feeling came over me. my stomach bloated and i slowly floated into the air. i left the onion vineyard, still wielding all my toes. the animal, if it could be called that, seemed disappointed at best.
some may call it luck, but i call it flatulence.
some may call it luck, but i call it flatulence.