Occasionally as we are lying in bed before we fall asleep, Megan will ask me to tell her a story.
"But you hate my stories," I reply.
And hate them she does. Truth be told, it is very difficult to come up with a captivating story on the spot, even for someone with my exceptional wit. Usually mine start out just fine, usually with a furry brown bear or two engaged in some wholesome woodland activity, but as soon as I lose focus the story quickly devolves into something toilet-related. At this point my audience of one lets out a groan and rolls over, indicating that story-time, for all intents and purposes, is over.
Take, for instance, last night's story. It began:
This is the story of the happy little eggplant. This eggplant lived in a garden with all his vegetable friends. There was Mr. Artichoke, Miss Cabbage, and the ever-precocious Carrot twins...
(OK, let me interrupt briefly. So far I'm off to a good start, right? I mean, anthropomorphic vegetables. Sounds like a subject rife with possibilities, no? You'd think. Back to the story:)
Everything seemed happy in the garden. Everyone got along well. Sure, there was the occasional disagreement about politics or sports, but nothing ever got personal. Unfortunately, not everything was as happy as it seemed. The happy little eggplant was not as happy as he let on. The happy little eggplant had...bulimia. (Megan sighs.) He would get home from work and stuff his face with ice cream sandwiches and pretzels and all sorts of junk food that was either high in sodium or high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS). I mean, this guy would gorge himself on the worst sort of crap you can find. He'd guzzle Mrs. Butterworth and chase it with four or five Hot Pockets (TM) then puke it all up. He was a freaking mess. His garden pals started noticing changes in him. He was withdrawn and looked unhealthy.
"Dude, what's up with you?" asked Mr. Artichoke, "You look like shit."
"Back off you nosy fuck," snapped the eggplant, "Why do you always have to be all up in my grill?"
Then the eggplant, in a fit off bulimia-induced rage, pulled a knife and stabbed Mr. Artichoke. He was sentenced to ten years in the state pen for aggravated assault. He died behind bars after contracting an extreme case of Syphillis. The End.