Soup

by Eman

Sara figures we could construct onion cannons to fire at enemies during war. She says onions are so stinky and gross no one would want to touch them, and when they exploded they’d make the enemy soldiers cry.

I told her I wouldn’t mind being hit by an onion cannon, especially since the force of the cannon would fry the onions and I’d end up being hit by a dozen fried onion rings.

She said I was being ridiculous and that was impossible, now she’s pouting because I said her idea was stupid. I said we should make pigeon cannons instead because no one likes pigeons. She said she does and now she’s sulking because I want to commit pigeoncide.

I really don’t like pigeons, one of my life-long dreams is to kick a pigeon in the arse.

I don’t know how this conversation came up, we were talking about how soup really shouldn’t have big bits of vegetables floating about, I told her they reminded me of dead people in a river and she gave me a look. She never likes it when I talk about death, but I suppose that’s expected since she’s only seven. I said that when I bite down on the peas I imagine them to be eyeballs and the paste that bursts out is eyeball gunk. I also told her that peas used to be spelled pease in the old days. She didn’t really listen.

She doesn’t want her soup anymore.

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