Exploding lard



“Don’t blame me for your chaotic thoughts. I am not the one allowing them free rein in that oddly misshapen egg you call a head. For the sake of my sanity put on a different thinking cap,” she spat.
“You are what you think, you know,” was the sage advice that was pounded into me, word for word, by a pudgy finger.
“Yeah, yeah,” I answered, flapping my arm-wing futilely. The very moment I completed the gesture, the realisation that it had been the wrong thing to do in the mood she was in, hit me like a runaway quidditch ball. Where the hell was Harry Potter when you needed him anyway?
“Well, I never…,” she said and I could see the mercury in her anger thermometer rise to dangerous levels. She was about to blow and pieces of lard would be whizzing around at the speed of light. Perhaps it was time for a sturdy helmet and not one of the several dozen thinking caps I had collected over the years. Unfortunately, everyone in the known universe would be picking up the pieces for weeks. Lard refineries would be springing up all over the place and the earth would be covered in a thick layer of hazy smoke. Visiting aliens would choke and post a notice in the Milky Way which would read: Beware; this is a lard-assed planet! Intruders will be melted down and used as lip balm for the many-mouthed, slimy Octolupians. (I just made this up, there is no such race…or is there? Nope, just Googled it.)


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