Three years had passed since the crash of ’29. All across America, hunger and desperation festered like open wounds. Sven and Ollie, laid off and destitute, decided to try their luck riding the rails. One rainy night, they hopped off a train and began slogging through a muddy field, drawn by warm light burning in the windows of a nearby farmhouse.
A burly farmer answered the door. Sven and Ollie, mud-spattered, cold, and soaked to the bone, begged for lodging.
“Well,” the farmer said, pulling on his beard. “I suppose there’d be no harm in my letting you boys sleep in the barn.”
Sven and Ollie nodded eagerly.
"But I warn you," the farmer said. "I'd better not catch either one of you rascals anywhere near my daughter."
Sven and Ollie agreed. However, human nature being what it is, they were unable to keep their promise. Just as the first rays of dawn touched the sky, the farmer caught the hapless pair creeping towards his daughter's bedroom. He met them in front of her door with a loaded shotgun.
“All right,” the farmer said. “You boy’s ‘ve had it.”
He leveled the shotgun at them.
Sven and Ollie fell to their knees. They pled loneliness. They pled insanity. They pled for mercy. Both began to weep.
Luckily for them the farmer, although gruff, was not a vicious man.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t kill ya.” He lowered the muzzle of the shotgun. Sven and Ollie, still on their knees, began to kiss his feet.
He kicked them away. “Cut that out! I said I weren’t gonna shoot yas. I didn’t say yas was getting’ off scot-free.”
Sven and Ollie were mute. The farmer stared at them, silently twisting his beard.
After a few moments, he said, “Well, I figure you’re both about equally guilty in this here thing. I want each of you wing-nuts to go out to my garden and bring back one-hunnerd of yer favorite fruits. If ya don’t,” the farmer raised the shotgun again. “I’m gonna paint this here hallway with yer livin’ guts.”
What could Sven and Ollie do? They did as the farmer commanded.
Sven returned first, a burlap sack filled with ripe cherries slung over his shoulder. By this time, the farmer had retired to his kitchen and settled into an old rocking chair. The muzzle of his shotgun rested on one knee. Above the sink, a picture window opened onto the garden outside.
The farmer framed Sven in his gun sights. “Now here’s what yer gonna do: yer gonna open up that sack, and yer gonna stick ever one ‘o them there cherries up yer backside.”
Sven's eyes bulged. But what choice had he? Slowly, painfully, he shoved one hundred plump, red cherries up his rectum.
The farmer rocked and smiled.
Just as he finished pushing the final cherry into place, Sven glanced out the window.
He burst out laughing. Instantly, one hundred cherries blasted out of his anus and went bounding across the kitchen floor.
The farmer leapt to his feet. “What the hell’s a matter with you, boy? What ‘re you laughin’ at?”
“I’m sorry,” Sven said. He was gasping for air, barely able to speak. “But I thought you said me ‘n Ollie were going to get the same punishment.”
The farmer pressed both barrels of his shotgun into Sven’s skull. “That’s right. You are. What of it?”
Sven jerked his thumb towards the window. “See for yourself. Ollie’s out there picking watermelons.”
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