D is for Dasyure and drooling:



She gently fastened a napkin around my neck as I drooled, saving my keyboard from imminent disaster. I was lost in the narrow passages of the Chocolate Factory and nobody was sending a search team. She peeked over my shoulder at the computer screen and surmised that a Dasyure was a flesh eating marsupial.
“Honestly, the things her mind comes up with! I swear she was thinking of coating a victim in fresh blood and allowing the animal to eat him alive. It would be a long process, judging by the size of a Dasyure. It weighs anything from 4grams to 2 kilograms. Death by Dasyure: that would be a new one, for sure. How long did it take for the victim to die, the prosecutor would ask, to which the forensic specialist would say; forever, literally forever. Why didn’t he just get up and walk away the next question would be and as one all eyes would be on the writer, which was likely to answer: ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’ ” She clucked her tongue loudly; more often than not I was seen as the problematic child.
Obviously I didn’t care; I was drooling over rich, heavy chocolate streams in which I could dip my cup as often as I liked, without caring about diabetic shock. It was a dream and only nightmares had adverse effects. Why is it that only mares are the bearers of bad dreams? Stallions should be held accountable too. It was surely a case of sexism; I would have to speak to the person in charge of dreams when next I visited the interior of my mind.
They left me drooling over chocolate medallions and took themselves off for a beverage that had several tiny umbrellas in it.
For nothing on chocolate:
This is scary! Stop drooling immediately!


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