Donald's Tale -- Shoelaces

Donald tried to tie the laces of his shoes as if he was a famous pastry chef having trouble with his walnut pie. The filling too runny, the dough will not set, and the waiter comes in with an order for more. The chef panics, throwing the onions and meat loaf into the mix, stirring vigorously hoping it will thicken. He shoves the dough down his pants trying to speed the setting process with the chill of his long neglected groin. The waiter pleads, “Where is the pie, where is the pie?” Sweat beads on the brow of the chef as he thickens and sets, thickens and sets. Now he throws it all together hurriedly and jams it under his arm, then thinks of the goat in the petting zoo that he saw in the happier times of his childhood, praying this will generate heat.

But the pie never cooks.

The waiter is stiffed.

The chef collapses to the floor in a heap that resembles more a white frosted sponge cake then a person, fetal and crying.

Finally, Donald gives up on his laces and slides his feet into his warm comfy slippers with a sigh of a job well done.