Onions

A topic which most shy away from. I really can imagine why. Generally unpleasant, and sometimes associated with green ogres, these innocent, pungent vegetables are really given a bum rap in the sugary society that we live in.
Onions are stored in various places. For example, in my humble abode, they are kept safely dried in a small closet in the back of the family garage. This was an experiment, this "drying" of the onions. We laid them out on sheets to shrivel up in the sun for a good thirty-six hours, and then tightly corded them up on a string, and stuck them in the garage where they would be safely out of sight (and smell). Unfortunately, the door to this aforesaid closet is rather a bugger to open and close. The carpenter neglected to leave any room between the floor and the bottom of the door, so it usually takes considerable effort to get into the onion stash. That being said, one day not so long ago, I was sent to fetch some onions, and I bravely walked towards my fate. Scissors in hand, I was fully prepared to deal with whatever the garage may have decided to throw at me. A dank, dark, musty place, the garage was and still is a place that usually invokes some of my deepest fears, but I courageously ignored all my foreboding premonitions, and boldly flung open the main door. Flicking the light on, I stepped forward, only to be stopped abruptly by a box that had begun shaking and quivering in a most un-boxlike fashion. Startled, I hesitated. A cat suddenly burst out of it, and I laughed my fears off. Too soon though. The worst was yet to come.
I threaded my way through the various vehicles: motorcycles, cars, bikes, scooters, doing my best to avoid bumping into them, lest I should get a nice coating of rust and dirt on my previously clean clothes. Succeeding, I heaved a sigh of relief as I finally reached my destination: the onion closet.
I first knew there was something wrong, when I reached for the doorknob. Usually, there isn't a problem when one does this action, but in my case, there was something dreadfully wrong. There was no doorknob. Or handle. Or anything, in fact, except for a large and rather uninviting hole. I have to say, it is not exactly a fun and worry-free experience sticking vulnerable fingers into a dark void. Since wasps have been natural denizens of the garage for the past century, I carefully took all the precautions necessary to determine that there were, in fact, no insects living in that hole. After spending sufficient time on that, I decided to proceed.
Firmly, I placed my fingers in the hole and tugged. The door didn't budge. Puzzled, I tried again. And again. Finally, I put a little more exertion into it. I yanked that puppy as hard as I could, and I was treated with a door in the face. Not a comfortable experience, my readers. Definitely not one I would recommend.
By this time, I was thoroughly annoyed. But, I thought, I am nearly done. I just need to get some onions, and I can leave this awful place. I reached in for the onions. And oh the horror. Apparently, we had not allowed them enough time in the sun. Staring at me gleefully, taunting me, were rows and rows of bunches of mold hanging on strings.
And the lesson here is, my dear readers, is to always dry your onions for at least forty-eight hours, cause apparently thirty-six just doesn't cut it.

~Mighty Rainbow Panda