Sanguine Sanny woke up in a rather marinated state and looked at the mushrooms growing outside his window. They were red. More accurately, they were reddish-brown, and Sanguine Sanny was sure that these mushrooms indicated where the little people dance.
The little people. The wee folk. You know what I mean. Of course you do.
Sanguine Sanny rolled out of the urine-soaked sheets of his bed and wrapped a tapestry around his naked frame. He toddled to the window and surveyed the wonderful field and the vast, vast number of reddish-brown mushrooms. Donning his fez, he walked out into the bright daylight and began meticulously picking mushrooms with a bobby pin. One by one the mushrooms made their way from the grassy meadow where the little people dance into Sanguine Sanny's salivating mouth. It was Pavlov all over again, except with no dogs, no bells and no meat powders - only the saliva.
It took only a few minutes for the pain to begin in Sanny's abdomen. In another minute or two it was excruciating, but Sanny continued his fungal feast. The bobby pin darted faster and more deftly as he went, and the reddish-brown mushrooms flew down the poor fool's gullet at breakneck speed. It was only a small voice that made him pause.
"You damned fool," said a wee man in wee bell bottoms, "those'll get you sicker'n a dog."
"Tap, tap," went the bobby pin, and the wee man in bell bottoms fell to the ground unconscious.
Sanguine Sanny vomited a great column of chunky, reddish-brown gastric juice. "No leprechaun with bad fashion sense is gonna' tell me what to eat," he said, wiping his lips.