"What do we do now?" Mogey inquired as the two pals gazed out over the field of dead and dying melons.
"I'll tell you what we don't do," Smush replied, "we don't ever again try to save sixty-five cents an acre by using rat'n'cabbage fertilizer."
"I know the rat'n'cabbage fertilizer was a bad idea. Given the prevailing westerly winds, the entire community of East Weeble knows it was a bad idea. I don't need you to tell me it was a bad idea. What I'm asking you is what do we do about it?"
"Well," said Smush, taking a long and stinky breath, "we must do as our forefathers would've done in this situation."
"Rub our foreuncles' big chubby bellies for luck?" Mogey suggested.
"No. Well, yes, but that's not all. The founding fathers of Weeble County would've gathered the entire community together at the top of Scrabbleword Hill, held the first annual Stinkmelon Roll, and then sold clothespins at exorbitant prices."
"Ah, so that's how we ended up with the world's largest and only Sunburn Festival," Mogey said, rubbing his hands together like the manager of a lotion store just before his first ballet recital. "It's diabolical. You know how the old saying goes: When life gives you stinkmelons, make sure everyone smells those stinky melons."
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