The two butterflies bobbed through the air, swerved clumsily around a breeze, and stumbled into a patch of asters. “You’re drunk,” accused the clear one. “Not,” slurred the solid one, “just had one apple.” “It was pure brandy when you got to it.” “You’re brandy.” “I’m not flying with you when you’re like this.” “You’re not flying, you’re on a flower.” “You’re right, and I’m going to stay on this flower.” “I’m going to stay on this flower too. Have a little nap.” A shadow flicked over the butterflies. The bird swooped and returned home. “You’re drunk,” accused its mate.
Note: I don't condone or condemn safe use of alcohol, but do think it's a bit funny that sometimes butterflies eat rotten fruit that turns into alcohol in their bellies.
Note: I don't condone or condemn safe use of alcohol, but do think it's a bit funny that sometimes butterflies eat rotten fruit that turns into alcohol in their bellies.