Dearest reader, I write to you today with a once in a lifetime investment opportunity. Twice in a lifetime, if you read last week’s newspaper. For I have come into possession of, and wish to pass on, the fabled horn, that storied cornucopia: The Horn of Plenty of Bees.
We’ve all seen those Thanksgiving pictures, with bountiful food emanating from the Horn; much like how the posters spew forth from the mouth of my neighbor Carlo, the “weird poster guy.” But unbeknownst to most of the world, on every non-Thanksgiving day, the Horn strictly produces bees.
You have problems. We all do. Observe: neighborhood kids are pranking you big time by ringing your doorbell and then remaining to talk to you. The solution? Bees. Observe: Carlo is acting suspicious in the wee hours of the night, and looks smaller and more greasy than usual. The solution? Sting him up, baby.
Observe: your garden, once the envy of the neighborhood, is dying left and right due to a lack of pollination. The solution? I can’t think of one, but at least you’ll have a cool horn to show off.
How does the Horn work, you might wonder? It remains an enigma. All I know definitively is that it produces a seemingly infinite supply of bees. Uncontrollably. Forever. At intervals ranging from the length of about a yardstick, but slightly longer; to the length of a bee.
So here I am, with my house full of bees. My fridge is full of bees, my bed is full of bees. Even my bees are full of bees. My beehive is empty. The reason for which, as far as I can surmise, is that it’s too close to Carlo’s grotto.
Please, take this cursed horn off my hands. It has ruined my life, but it’s free. You just have to come pick it up. I live on the outskirts of town; it should be extremely easy to tell which house is mine. It is completely covered in Art Deco posters.