I’VE RECENTLY BEEN THINKING OF GIVING UP WRITING AND TAKING UP GARDENING INSTEAD.

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper.
Peter Piper looked at the peck
of pickled pepper in his hand and thought,
“How the heck did this peck of pepper get pickled?
Surely the pickling of the pepper should occur
after the pepper’s been picked, not before.”

Peter Piper went to the Mayor
to try and get an answer,
but the Mayor was having a manicure
and didn’t care about Peter’s
preposterous problems right now
thank you very much.

Peter Piper wrote a letter
to the New Scientist magazine.
They printed it with three different responses
all of which contrasted
and didn’t give Peter Piper
a satisfactory answer.

Peter Piper tried to sell his pecks of pickled pepper
on a market stall as a miracle cure.
“Whatever the problem,
‘Peter Piper’s Miracle Pickled Pepper’
is GUARANTEED to make you feel better!
It’s been proven to relieve the symptoms of
flu, hayfever, IBS, arthritis, measels,
mumps, impetigo, the clap, athlete’s foot,
paranoia, MS, ME, asthma, schizophrenia,
the common cold, insomnia, amnesia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
the feeling of walking into a room and forgetting why you did,
shyness, AIDS and sunburn.
Problems in the bedroom?
My pickled pepper turns your saggy pecker
into a majestic woodpecker!”
After a few weeks, his stall was closed down
by an investigative watchdog.
Peter Piper appeared in court
and was given a two year suspended sentence.

Funnily enough, two years after this incident,
Peter Piper married the investigative watchdog representative.
Turned out that, illegal activities aside,
they had a lot in common.

In his marital bed
Peter Piper dreamed he had died
and ascended to Heaven.

“Ah yes, the pickled pepper guy,” St Peter said.
“God’s been waiting for you. Go straight through.”

“You wanted to see me?,”
Peter Piper said nervously.
“Yes, yes, but first, come with me.”
God lead Peter Piper
to a tennis court out the back of God’s office.
“Haven’t played for ages,” God said.

They played best of three sets
and it finished 6-0, 6-1,
to Peter Piper.
“Never have been able to get the hang of this game,”
God said, “But I do enjoy it so.”

They went back to God’s office,
drank port and smoked cigars.
“Peter, I need to talk to you about something.”
Peter Piper swallowed nervously.
“What is it?”
“Well… It’s sex.”
“Sex?”
“Yes, sex. I’ve always wondered, Peter,
what’s it like?”

Peter Piper was confused.
“You… you don’t know?”
“I have no corporeal form, Peter.
I have never truly known
the touch of another person.
I wish to know what that’s like.”
“Well… It depends, really.”
“On what?”
“On who you’re with,
what the circumstances are…”
“So, no two sexual experiences are the same,
is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Excellent! It’s decided then.
You shall write a play about sex.”
Peter Piper wondered if he’d temporarily blacked out or something.
“Sorry, what? Have I missed something?”
“You know how to write a play, don’t you?”
“Well, not really.”
“Oh, you’ll pick it up I’m sure. OH MY SELF,
we can have a double bill with my new play!”
God skipped out of God’s office
singing “Oh Happy Day.”