Mogey peered over his Reader's Digest and extra large bowl of cracklin' oat bran to check the clock. It was almost time. His muscles tensed for action.
"Today's the day, Mogey!" Smush announced as he barrelled down the stairs. Mogey leapt aside: Getting in Smush's way this morning would be tantamount to standing between a buffalo-sized goose and a big ol' helping of goose food. "They're in," Smush continued. "The fresh twix bars arrived this morning!"
"What is it with you and 'fresh' twix?" Mogey inquired.
"I wish I had time to explain it to you, my friend, but once you've tasted a vine-ripened twix that came off the boat that very morning, you realize those supermarket twix are literal garbage. I'm off to Chester Chester's before all that's left are bruised ones."
"Be careful," Mogey urged his pal as Smush headed out the door. "It rained awful hard last night and there are puddles out there deeper than that poem you wrote for Miss Mary Molly MageeMcMuffin last Mardi Gras."
"Your fragrance enchants me: ambrosia divine / (the whipped cream dessert, not the mythical kind)," said Smush, quoting his own excellent work. "I thank you and I shall use caution."
Smush did not use caution. In fact, he fell into three different puddles and some kind of mud slip 'n slide in his haste to reach Chester Chester's Confectionaratorium. But as he intoned (and subsequently jotted down for future inscription upon his tombstone and/or any memorial statues erected in his honor), "A fresh twix is a fresh twix, no matter how full of muddy water your trousers may be."
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