Marge to mean Margaret; not margarine. I'm sure you have margarine where you live. But do you have the name Marge as well?
Anyway, our Marge died. We had to bury her in the garden.
So I put her in a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! and laid her in the ground. Whilst the rest of the family was still mourning her departure, I felt hungry and went in the kitchen for some toast.
On opening the fridge I discovered we had no butter, or I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! either. In fact we had nothing resembling or tasting of, or like, butter for me to spread on my toast.
It was then that I remembered that the tub we buried Marge in was not completely empty. It had a little I Can't Believe still in it. I Can't Believe I didn't bother to wash the tub before placing Marge in it. But then, I reasoned, what's the point? Soon enough Marge and the I Can't Believe will be as one anyway. Only the plastic tub will survive for a million years because those save the planet people tell us that plastic takes that long to decompose.
So I wondered. What if I dug up Marge again and use some of the left-over I Can't Believe on my toast? Would that do any harm?
I could scrape off any hamster hairs that happen to intermingle with the I Can't Believe; and there'd be just enough for two slices of toast.
Seems reasonable enough. You would have probably done the same? Wouldn't you?
Then for some reason I decided against it. What if Marge blinked at me as I was taking the marge out of her fur?
I Can't Believe I even thought of doing it.
About an hour later the other hamster looked a bit unwell. Everyone thought he would also die. Probably of heartache missing his Marge.
His name is Peanut.
I quickly emptied the jar of peanut butter onto my two pieces of toast.
Just in case.
