Footprints in the butter

There’s no greater surprise when you look in the eyes of an elephant stuck in your fridge. He slipped in the butter, and now he feels utterly sick that he’ll fall off the edge,

of the cheese that’s been grated and left in a tub for a sandwich with pickle and ham. Now If that pachyderm had been able to skate, he’d have fallen trunk first in the jam.

With the lions and tigers and bears in the draw, where you normally store all the veg, it’s a jungle in there and I’m not too surprised that the elephants right on the edge.

But the monkeys are playing amongst the fresh eggs (why on earth do you keep them in there?) and they’re using the cottage cheese waxing their legs, jungle fashion means losing your hair?

There’s a dearth of blue parrots who shriek when the door opens, lighting the back of the fridge. Now I think that the pills I take don’t do a thing, but then, fuck it, I’m not one to judge!