I will kill you all, Taft Brenderbridgetoofar mused vomitously. Like a ship in the night he passed gas and cupcaked himself to relive That Moment.

It had been a dinner, many courses served under the gaze of a gradually melting butter goose. Quince Farbarbengringing had made a joke that stilled the party into a silent silence more silent than the grave or as silent as the grave. No one will ever know. Or will they? No one knows. Or will they. However.

Children are best served by their parents in a soup as a stew poorly befits a celebration of childhood and as the child soup grew cold the silence stretched into eternity and the partygoers had time to reflect on the poopy hole.  

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