Bartholomew the earthworm, a known teetotaler, found himself in a pickle. Or rather, inside an overly ripe plum. He’d accidentally slurped his way into it, thinking it was just particularly juicy soil. Turns out, plums that have been fermenting in the summer sun pack a wallop.
He woke up feeling distinctly… bubbly. He blinked. Everything seemed to sway. “Must… deliver… Sunday sermon,” he mumbled to himself, crawling out of the plum and wobbling towards the local anthill, which doubled as their church.
The ants were already gathered, looking expectantly at the small mound of damp earth that served as a pulpit. Bartholomew, usually a pillar of the community, was late. And smelling faintly of plum schnapps.
He slithered onto the mound, his vision doing the tango. “Brothers and sisters!” he announced, his voice slurred. “Today… today we discuss… the importance of… uh… dirt!” He paused, swaying precariously.
A tiny ant in the front row piped up, “Pastor Bartholomew, are you alright? You seem… unusually shiny.”
“Shiny? I’m… radiant! Filled with the… the spirit… of… fruit!” He giggled. “And I have a very important message! A Drunk Worm Sermon! Listen closely! The answer to all your problems… is… to eat more…purple!” He then lost his balance and rolled off the mound, landing with a thump in a pile of leaf litter.
A very old ant, who’d seen everything in his long life, shook his head. “Well,” he muttered to the ant next to him. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone preach about the virtues of getting plastered on plums. I think I prefer the usual message about hard work and storing food for winter.” He paused. “Although… he does have a point about the purple.”
