I think we can all agree that we always know when someone is peeling an orange.
Really, though, is it that hard to miss?
I remember that I had a full fledged, fully authorized, totally not-illegal discussion with someone about this subject, and I can confirm that oranges - be them hidden or nah - are always detected when being peeled.
Like we'd just be sitting in sunny (ha) and warm (ha) Scotland scanning our brains for any signs of life during a maths test, or English essay, and someone, somewhere, initiates the first incision into an innocent orange.
(Meanwhile in England)
The Queen is about to have an orange.
(Back to Scotland)
Boom. The orange-peeling senses are tingling. Two students, one sitting in maths, the other in English (par exemple) drop everything they are holding and march out the room, ignoring the sudden protests from their teachers. They had a far more important job now.
They arrive at the secret staircase leading to the secret bunker, which is made out of cardboard boxes that say 'keep out' on them. No one suspects anything about cardboard boxes that say 'keep out'. No one.
They descend into the blackness, illuminated only by a single, flickering lightbulb. All around the perimeter of the room is covered with the most high tech technology in the world; blinky lights, spinning dials, and iPad Air 2's.
The O.R Operator turns around, handing the two agents a full report on the dire situation at hand.
"Target locked; Buckingham Palace, throne room, twenty degrees north-east; suspected use of blades." The Operator says. The two agents read over the file, a serious situation calling for serious faces. So now isn'T THE TIME FOR NYAN CAT TO BE PLAYING, CONOR.
The serious situation is serious, and even the world's most trained agents don't know what to do next.
"Well I suppose there's only one question left," the maths agent states.
"No, you don't mean..." The English agent starts, clutching the pieces of paper in sudden realisation.
"Yes..." The unnecessary shades are on. "Who is peeling that orange?"
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I have no idea what that was plz dun ask.
I swear I didn't eat the profiteroles without asking I swear.
It's all Dipstick's fault I swear.
(Who da heck is Dipstick?)
My imaginary micro teacup pomeranian...
----
(Ciao!!!
And have a merry new year li'l Comets!)
YOU ARE READING
The Antics and Fudged Up Sugar Within My Non-existent Life
Non-FictionSo basically, in a simpler version of the title, I have no life. From choking on air to 'nom'ing a sandwich, this is a little collection of the rather memorable events in this soul. Yup.
