Doug really dug dough. Both types of dough. The stuff you make bread out of and the bread itself. And when I say bread, I mean money. Except for the first time I said bread. Then I meant bread. The stuff you eat. Hopefully you don’t eat money, otherwise this might get really confusing.
As luck would have it, Doug was the world’s richest baker. The jammy bastard. And when I say jammy, I mean that he’s lucky. I don’t mean the sticky stuff that you put on bread.
However, there was a fly in the metaphorical ointment of Doug’s seemingly idyllic lifestyle. That fly was yeast. Doug liked yeast the least. He saw it as a necessary evil at best. At worst…well, you don’t want to know what Doug thought at worst. Doug’s worst thoughts were so worsty that they made yeast look like the nice parts of the whole bread\money\dough situation. And yet. And yet.
Tuesday saw Doug oversee a gigantic shipment of yeast. As the world’s richest baker it stood to reason that he would need a shitload of yeast. The reason that he was the world’s richest baker is because he sold more bread than anyone else on the planet. And that takes A LOT of yeast. The shipment was, quite literally, a “ship”meant. And what I mean by that is that it came on a ship. And not just any ship…it was an oil tanker. Only, it didn’t contain oil…it contained yeast. Doug opened the tap on the side of the tanker and let the horrible, stinking, scurrilous, stagnant, erotic, stenchified, glowing, smelling, groaning yeast slide deep inside his yeast bin.
With the yeast bin full, Doug shed a single tear at the irony of the moment. Ironically, this single tear dripped off his doughy chin and into the yeast bin. The second the salty droplet of water made contact with the yeast it exploded. Can you imagine? There was a shitload of yeast, so it must have gone up like a fucking rocket.
Doug died. He could no longer dig dough. Oh. Oh, the irony.
