"Ow!" Pico cried as his father patted him on the back. "Father, I have been badly sunburned, must you pat so harshly?"
"Oh, I am sorry, Pico. But you should know by now to rub mud on yourself in the morning to protect you from the sun's deathly glare"
Pico did know this. He just disliked being dirty. The feeling of rubbing wet earth on himself made him want to dismiss his recently eaten breakfast.
Because of this he had chosen to ignore putting it on this morning before going to harvest the fields.
Despite being badly burned, today had been a very good day; he had collected nearly three buckets of pickles before lunch! Pico also hated pickles, but he loved how his mother would smile at him when he came carrying three buckets full!
"Pico Rodger Hoover!" she would say cheerfully "You have made your mother happy this day! Three whole buckets, you must have been working very hard. As payment you shall have tacos for lunch!"
Pico loved tacos. More than he loved not being sunburned, or his dog, or maybe even his parents. Oh how he loved them! At night he dreamed of nothing but tacos. Sometimes while harvesting in the fields he would imagine that the hideous, green pickles were lovely, delicious tacos.
"Mother" he would say. "Why is it that we farm pickles? Why not farm something more fascinating?"
"Fascinating how?" she would ask, while placing two beautiful tacos into the frying pan.
"Fascinating. Like potatoes!" Pico he would exclaim, "Why don't we farm potatoes? Everyone loves potatoes."
"And doesn't everyone love pickles just as much?" she would reply.
"No, mother," he would say. "I do not love pickles, mother."
And the moral of the story is: never assume everyone likes the same things as you.
The End