One fine day outside the vibrant, lush fields of Midgar, Don Corneo got into his jalopy with a happy grin smeared across his Simpson-esque, deformed face. "My, what a fun day this will be," he announced to no one in particular as he revved the engine and listened to that baby purr. The chocobos at the head of the car kwehed into action and yanked that jalopy down the dirt road leading to fair maiden Tifa's cottage. The Don was planning on having a delightful picnic and Tifa was sure to bring a basket of Melons and other assorted goods.
Standing abreast with Farmhand Onion, Tifa gazed out across the effervescent fields gracing the grand slope of Mt. Mangos. "I think we're in for a good harvest this season," Tifa said with a knowing smile as she caressed a pair of freshly stiffened melons plucked fresh from the morning dew of the fields. "What say you, farmhand?"
The farmhand, not paying attention in the slightest to farmer Tifa, was busy fixating his view on the firm, supple melons. He was mesmerized by the juicy goodness hiding beneath their whimsical exterior. But his attention soon faltered as the perky melons, even in all their glory, could not compete with the obnoxious warking of the chocobos stampeding down the dirt road leading towards the farm fields.
"What ho, fair Onion! Noisy birds have come to roost in our fertile fields! Make away with them posthaste and forthwith!" ordered Tifa with all the weight of her Shakespearean prowess.
The confused, innocent—and yet not so innocent—farmhand barely had time to register the deeper, cryptic meaning of the Bard's famous diction when the chocobos had descended upon his fair head and sent him tumbling into a crummy box of apples. They were too small for his liking, of course, so he became quite saddened.
It was then after sending the ambiguously innocent farmhand tumbling into the inferior fruits that Don Corneo emerged from his jalopy with all the grace of a slum lord king.
"How's about you and I go catch the next chick flick, sweetheart?" he said smugly through a half-smoked cigar standing erect out his mouth.
Farmer Tifa, of course, had no such interest in films as trivial as they for she had the comfort of the glorious melons betwixt her and a farmhand to attend to them. "Nay," said she still with the grace of the Bard's tongue. "I have but a single desire: to behold these sweet melons in the eyes of my Onion, who is ever faithful and true. Begone post-hence from my fertile fields that I may sow aplenty new seeds with my trusty farmhand."
Baffled and bamboozled by the fancy-pants speech of humble, yet Shakespearean, Farmer Tifa, the Don took her overly verbose and metaphoric prose to mean consent. "That's great, sweet-cheeks! If we hurry, we can catch the 3PM bargain matinee! Let's blow this joint!" He one final puff of his stinking cigar and spat it out into the field before grabbing Tifa and shoving her into his jalopy. Before she could even form a sonnet to voice her displeasure most foul, she had been strapped into the passenger seat of the dilapidated ride and her door locked by a chocobo that was oddly really good with locks. The Don then floored it, but not before the valiant Farmhand Onion's quick reflexes kicked into gear and saw him stuff a potato into the tailpipe of the jalopy. The engine purred and then hissed and then ultimately sputtered until it died.
"What'sa matta with this hunk o'junk?!" The Don exclaimed as he tried again and again to rev the engine. But the engine was shot and the chocobos were confused. They just looked at each other and occasionally pecked at their feathers, trying to find some grubs.
Farmer Tifa, meanwhile, was horribly bored. She found the whole affair to be utterly and unobstructedly droll. She had melons that needed tending and her farmhand was nowhere to be seen attending them. She let out a Victorian-style sigh and quietly thought out an elaborate soliloquy to which no one would be made privy until Kathy the Inchworm would one day pen the whole affair in her best selling book of literary produce-induced quandaries.
While everyone was distracted, either by grubs, a broken up car, or thoughts of unattended, supple melons that were losing firmness with each passing second, trusty Farmhand Onion had risen to the occasion and called forth his coalition of the willing by posting an express letter through Mognet. Within seconds, Uno appeared and knocked on the Don's jalopy window.
"Whaddya want?!" the Don angrily sputtered, lighting a new cigar with the full intent of blowing smoke into Uno's face.
"My cat ate it," replied Uno in earnest.
"What cat?" said the Don, sincerely perplexed.
"Snowpies," Uno replied simply.
And then the unimaginable happened. Don Corneo, in that moment—on that farm, in that jalopy, smoking that cigar—finally understood the meaning of life. Turning over a new leaf, he put out that cancer-causing death stick and apologized to fair Farmer Tifa for intruding upon her good graces and alone time with her melons. He offered up all the fruits he had gathered for the picnic as an apology, and in that moment, Aqua, Penelo, and to a lesser extent, Rikku, popped out of the trunk and beat the Don to a bloody pulp. They then hijacked the chocobos and went off to catch that afternoon matinee.
Uno, meanwhile, ever the unsung hero, just walked into the sunset.
With all the drama of that afternoon finally coming to a close, Tifa returned full attention to her well-endowed melons and again marveled at the season's harvest. "Indeed, young squire farmhand, we shall have a lovely and perky season."
And Farmhand Onion said, "Yay."
The End.