A/N: And finally we get to a good, old-fashioned, non-romantic humorous drabble. Ah, Samson. You shall never cease to amuse.

"Y'know, I bet if we unraveled that sucker
It'd roll all the way down to Fargo, North Dakota...
'Cus it's the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota
I'm talkin' 'bout the biggest ball of twine in Minnesota"
—"The Biggest Ball Of Twine In Minnesota" ("Weird Al" Yankovic; "UHF: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack And Other Stuff")

String Theory

The shadow it cast under the afternoon sun was immense, enormous, completely engulfing the surrounding troop of Bean Scouts in an awe-inspiring ellipse of darkness. And they just stared up at it, fixated, finding it difficult even to blink in the presence of this glorious monument.

"It's...it's beautiful, Slinkman," sniffled Scoutmaster Lumpus, wiping a tear from his eye.

The slug beside him nodded slowly, a dreamy smile stretched across his face. "Well, sir," he responded solemnly, "it is the Biggest Ball of Twine in Fuzzy Fir County."

The Bean Scouts let out a sigh as they continued to gaze up at the majestic yellow sphere, towering at least fifty feet on top of its elegant glass stand. It was incredible. It was breathtaking. It was—

"All right, everybody!" Slinkman suddenly called out, clapping his hands together decisively. "Who wants some overpriced souvenirs from the gift shop?"

In a tidal wave of raucous cheers and shouts, the Beans stampeded over to the souvenir pavilion, leaving only a cloud of dust surrounding the Ball. Well, that and a few lingering figures.

"Wow..." murmured Samson, rooted to the spot as he kept on staring awedly at the Ball. It was a truly amazing object, a solid testament to the virtues of obsessive-compulsiveness, evident in the awesomely focused concentration it had to have taken in order to wind up so much string, in such a perfect sphere, with the criss-cross pattern of the individual threads so neat and orderly... The guinea pig found himself growing weak at the knees, and had to lean on the rope barrier surrounding the Ball for support. It was all just too much. It was too strong a symbol for every element of perfection and pristine-ness that Samson revered.

A bit farther off, the only other spectators still at the Ball nudged each other, sneering mischievously before approaching Samson.

"Y'know, it's kinda funny how attached Samson's gotten to this thing," began Dave masterfully, craning his long neck closer to Samson to make sure that the guinea pig could hear him.

"Indeed," replied Pingpong right on cue, raising his voice a little, "especially because of his—BALL PROBLEM!"

A split-second before Samson could realize what was going on, he was sharply struck in the head by two souvenir miniature balls of twine, sending him crashing to the ground as the loons ran away, laughing hysterically.

With a groan, the little guinea pig pushed himself off the ground, frantically brushing the dirt off his uniform. "Jerks," he muttered to no one in particular as he straightened his cap and turned to once more gaze lovingly up at the Ball of Twine.

But then he stopped.

Right at the base of the Ball's glass stand, trailing out slightly from the body of the Ball, was the tail end of a piece of string, obviously the last one that had been added onto the Ball before its architect had been committed to that asylum. Samson wouldn't have paid it any more than a passing glance if he hadn't noticed something, something that made his blood run cold and his fur puff up dramatically.

There was a stray fiber at the end of the string.

This was not right. This just...just couldn't be. The Biggest Ball of Twine couldn't have an imperfection as GLARING as this, this infinitesimally small, near-invisible loose fiber that only Samson with his magnifying-glass-power lens prescription could have spotted.

As the initial shock slipped away from him, Samson glanced nervously from side to side. There was nobody around. So, ever so cautiously, he lifted up the edge of the rope barrier and crawled underneath, approaching the body of the Ball inch by painful inch. At last he was a mere hair's width away from the offending thread, feeling his hands grow clammy with anticipation. He licked his lips, thinking longingly of the inhaler stuffed in his back pocket. But there was no need to worry, he reminded himself as his fingers crept towards the tiny little fiber. All it would take was one quick pluck, and then he could just scamper back to the other side of the ropes, and nobody would be the wiser.

His thumb and forefinger closed around the fiber, and he gave a minuscule tug.

All of a sudden the glass stand began to shudder violently, vibrating horrendously from side to side. The Ball wobbled tenuously in its grasp, finally leaping fully out of the stand to smack heavily into the ground, slamming—of course—on top of Samson. The force of the impact was so strong, though, that the Ball bounced right back up again, only to crash down outside the ropes and begin rolling frantically down the hill as gravity took its course. The tiny fiber ripped off in Samson's flattened hand, but the end of the string also remained where it was, the end of an ever-longer trail of string marking out the route of the rapidly-unraveling Biggest Ball of Twine in Fuzzy Fir County.

Finally regaining some sensations in his nerve endings, Samson sprang to his feet, hoping desperately that no one had noticed.

The mob of angry-eyed tourists carrying pointy-looking pitchforks told him otherwise.

"Heh...aheheh..." Samson chuckled nervously, pulling at his necktie. "Eh...anybody need a piece of string?"