Raisins

Ed was on the brink of having a meltdown. He had to write a song by tomorrow, but he had absolutely nothing. Squat. Zilch. And nothing seemed to be coming to him.

Ty was sitting on the couch, chewing his pencil to a stub over his biology homework.

“How does anyone understand this?” he wondered, his brows knitted tighter than a felted sweater.

“Beats me,” Ed mumbled absentmindedly. He gazed around the room, desperate for inspiration.  There was wasn't too much, really: that Grease poster his sister had given him, the photo of his parents from their trip to the Parthenon, his copy of Chinese for Dummies that had been flung across the room months ago. On his cluttered desk, among other things, lay a neglected box of raisins. Then Ed had an idea.

“Ty, what’s your homework on?” he asked.

“Evolution,” Ty moaned.  "It stinks, really."

Inspiration struck Ed suddenly.  "It may not make sense, but what the heck.  It'll be something."  He began to scribble furiously on a scrap of a napkin, humming under his breath: “Raisins come from grapes, people come from apes, I come from Canada...”

Song by the Barenaked Ladies

The End

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