Mushrooms

Shortly before we moved, my fella bought a mushroom-growing kit.

Me, day of delivery: So your mushroom kit just arrived. Are you going to set it up?

Him: Yeah.

Me, week after delivery: So are you going to set it up?

Him: Yeah.

Me, one month after delivery: If you’re not going to set it up, can I at least put it up on a shelf or something? You know, so the cats don’t eat it.

Him, playing Portal 2 or reading TV tropes or whatever: *mumble* Yeah. *mumble”

Me: Ok, I’m putting it on this shelf here.

Him, 2 months after delivery: Hey, where’s my mushroom-growing kit?

Me: I told you, I put it up on the shelf to keep it safe. Remember?

Him, totally lying: Oh…Yeah.

Me, three months after delivery: Uh, I think you have mushrooms.

Him, looking at Oyster mushrooms sprouting out of the box on the shelf: Huh. Look at that.

"Mushroom Harvest"

Success?

And that was how we got Oyster Mushrooms. Tomorrow, we shall eat them and hopefully not die.

From the mushroom cluster’s viewpoint, the story probably goes something like this:

Once upon a time there was a mushroom kit in a box. Within the mushroom kit, the little mushroom spores dreamed about the day they’d escape their innoculated mini-logs and sponges and grow into big, beautiful mushrooms.

“Someday” said Pom Pom Blanc, “We shall be the biggest, tastiest, most beautiful mushrooms on earth!”

“Yes,” said Shitake. “And then we’ll be eaten.”

“Not us,” said Morel. “We’re going to be planted deep in the woods, where no one will ever find us.”

“F*ck this noise,” said Oyster. “We’re growing NOW.” And Oyster began to sprout and grow until it was a giant cluster of fungus threatening to take over the entire shelf and colonize the house. “Maybe we’ll even land a guest spot on Hoarders: Buried Alive.”

“Oyster raises a good point,” said Shitake. “We should probably not wait any longer.” However, the poor Shitake mushrooms were not strong enough to escape their plastic wrapping and so, once they sprouted, they rotted and congealed within their wrapper. Even though certain parties insisted that they’d be totally safe to eat, his clever and beautiful lady love was justifiably skeptical and said as much.

Meanwhile, the Shitake mushrooms were in dire peril.

“Help! We smell like death!” cried Shitake, although none of the others — being spores and all — could hear their plaintive cries except for Oyster, who just laughed and kept on ballooning to monstrous proportions. Until I harvested their asses, shoved them into the fridge, and thought about how I’d turn them into crock-pot stew. The End.

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