Sunday in the Park with Schmeckenpepper
Mr. Schmeckenpepper was in a tizzy.
The park was a sea of lederhosen. A mass of feathered hats, bearded men and mustachioed women.
Mr. Schmeckenpepper and Hans had been enjoying the delightful antics of Omar, the flatulant flame-throwing turk who passes a fiery gas through his anal canal.
Then Hans was gone.
Perhaps, thought Mr. Schmeckenpepper, Hans had simply gone to the lavatory. After all he'd eaten much bratwurst and quaffed many tankards of beer.
Then again, thought Mr. Schmeckenpepper, he may be getting into some mischief. He may, at this very moment, be lusting after an innocent maiden.
I can picture him now. . .
Hello! he would be saying, My name is Hans Christian Anderson. Yes, the writer. You know of my work? I am flattered! You are a student? The head of your class, no doubt. May I offer you some bratwurst? What? you've never had bratwurst before? How is that possible? There is only one solution. You must come back to my flat. Where I will serve you the finest bratwurst in all of Europe!
I will kill him! thought Mr. Schmecenpepper. Bratwurst, indeed!
A commotion in a nearby crowd caught the attention of Mr. Schmeckenpper.
"Mr. Schmeckenpepper," said Hans. "I can explain."
"You can explain in the pokey," said the policeman who had Hans by the collar.
"I was simply trying to emulate Omar, the fiery gas passer," said Hans.
Next days headlines:
Famed Writer Burns Breeches Behind Him
Destroys Bratwurst Stand