Radishes Rock

Blanket Cobb headed back to his apartment after his Kebab meal. He was hankering for something fresh, a crisp after-dinner delite, and decided to make a radish sandwich upon arriving home. As he walked, he imagined the sandwich in minute detail: The thinly sliced radish slivers, almost transparent, laid upon a thick slab of hearty bread. But wait! What was the bed of radish slices to sleep upon? Ah, nothing more than a mattress of creamy butter, straight from the udder of a cow, hand-churned by an attractive milkmaid with fairly large bosoms. Cobb experienced his second dribble of the day--"R-rr-rrrrrrrradish," he purred. The drool stayed in his mouth this time, and he chewed on it thoughtfully. Cobb was then interrupted by an odor that nipped his fantasy in the bud. It was the smell of radish pie, and Cobb found himself oblivious to the city-wide blackout as he followed the heavenly wafting odors to their source.
Four of Cobb's five senses shut down, as his body devoted every ounce of its energy to his olfactory glands, which were working overtime and causing Cobb to sweat profusely out of his nostrils. He followed his nose down Maple Avenue. He followed his nose into a cardboard box, three nesting pigeons, and a baby. Blanket Cobb followed his nose into the man standing in the back of the very long line that snaked out of the 28-Hour Diner. He did not notice the back of the man's shirt, which read, "Got Farsk?" He did not notice the festering wound on the back of the man's neck. He noticed only his position in the back of the line, and for that, Blanket Cobb let out a long, mournful cry. It sounded like "Radish," "Ooooooooooooyyy" and the howl of a lone wolf under a full moon. Cobb turned, and, like a lone wolf rejected from his prospective mate, slunk home to make himself a radish sandwich.