I Like My Larded Sherries
I really like larded sherries. My doctor says I really ought to cut back on them, though. His theory is that the lard clogs up my veins, while the sherry alcoholizes my brain and eats away at my liver. Well doc, here’s a little story that I think might change your mind.
Friday night I found myself drinking larded sherries, as I often do. I think I was on my eleventh, and I had a pretty big pile of undrinkable lard remnants piled up on my kitchen counter. I dumped the lard in a shopping back and walked down to the fair. Fairs have horses, after all, was what I was thinking to myself.
Eventually I was able to spot one of the horses all by itself, and snuck up on from behind. Before the horse could defend itself, I had taken the lard out of the bag and smeared it all over its horseshoes. The horse itself spasmed in a reflexive lard-fear response. But the fairgoers didn’t even notice. I could have been the fossilized remains of a humbug for all the attention they paid to me and my lard-smearing.
Mission accomplished.
On the way back home, I used the last few drops of lard to baptize a sinful-looking cicada, and then proceeded to pass out on my front porch. When I woke up, I realized that I had both given a horse a horseshoe adventure that he’d never forget, and I had saved the soul of a cicada. I think this proves beyond all doubt that larded sherries really are the best drink in the known universe. Even Pluto agrees, poor little half-planet.
So take that, you so-called doctor. If I’d cut back on my precious lard and my precious sherry, that cicada would probably be burning in hell right now. Would you want that weighing on your conscience? I didn’t think so. Even doctors love cicadas.