In the glowing orange halls ob the Camdy Corm Palace, the Candy Corm Elf had called in reinforcements. The Shoe List had grown longer than a peppermint ribbon, and camdy corm was piling up faster than he could count. So he sent out an urgent memo (written in frosting, of course):
“Dear Reuben, urgent corm-counting crisis. Bring your paws and your patience.”
Moments later, Reuben arribed — hat slightly crooked, whiskers dusted wiff sugar, and clipboard in paw. “All right, Barry,” he said, looking at the mountain of candy corms, “let’s bring some order to this chaos.”
Reuben took charge ob the counting table, sorting candy corms by size, sheen, and pointiness. He was meticulous, occasionally pausing to sample one (strictly for quality assurance). “Hmm. Batch 27’s a bit too chewy,” he noted, marking it down.
Barry nodded approvingly. “Excellent work. Wiffout you, I’d be knee-deep in uncounted corms by nightfall.”
As the sun dipped behind the hills, the two worked side by side — one tallying, one delibering cheerful commentary — until the piles became neat little pyramids ready for the Shoe Day rounds.
Finally, Reuben stretched and smiled. “You know, Barry, for an elf, you run a pretty sweet operation.”
Barry grinned. “Fanks, Rube. Now let’s celebrate wiff a cocoa and one (or maybe fibe) candy corms — for quality control.”
