In a small town nestled between rolling hills, there was a little bakery. Every morning the baker, who was a very tall man, put his head in the oven before lighting it up while shouting swear words, obscenities and ungodly talk. One of the townspeople, who had accidentally witnessed this strange behaviour a night when he was out with his dog who had a nervous bladder, asked him why.
Initially the answer was, “none of your business.” But a couple of days later, when the man was at the shop to buy Danish pastry, the baker let him in on his secret.
The baker leaned in, his voice softening, “it is the elves! A score of luscious female creatures that live in my oven and haunts me with their eroticising talk. They destroy the bread if you do not give them a good shout in the morning.” The man was sure that the baker was delirious, but when he came home he couldn’t get himself to eat the Danish. He gave it to his dog which pissed on the kitchen floor that very night. He took it for a walk even though it was half past three in the morning.
When he passed the bakery he couldn’t help peek in through the little window in the back. Suddenly the dog behind him spoke in a strange, deep voice. “You sick bastard! Can’t you just leave it alone. They are fine girls. Nothing erotic about them except they are pretty and like sex. They do nothing wrong, they destroy no bread. They lived and breed here long before that lousy bakery was even built. That baker is just one idiotic nutter, and his pastry taste like shit!”