Alas, the wretched Winnie the Pooh has finally reaped that which he’d sewn, for his monstrous testes have now been shorn from groin by the Almighty Zeus himself. Pooh, that horrid, horny bear, dared not only to possess a scrote larger than that of the Lightning God, but what more, did then brag of it’s heft in the town square for all to hear. And now, it is no more; truly, no hubris goes unpunished.

Ahh, Winnifred Pooh: where are you now? You, who once strolled through the Hundred Acre Woods with testicles dragging behind, two vile cannonballs enrobed in billowing canvas, pine needles and tree sap collecting in their intricate folds as they slid along the forest floor. You, who bravely climbed the highest peaks of Mount Olympus — your own pallid sex organs slung back over your shoulder like some tumescent bindle — so that you might spit in the eye of the God of Gods and mock his comparatively meager endowment. You, who flew too close to the sun, and by your vanity caught fire.

A eunuch now, stripped of that which once brought you fame and fortune; was it worth it, Pooh? You egotist ursine, who could not leave well enough alone? And now Piglet will not answer your letters; Tigger scoffs as you pass by in the agora; even Eeyore, that poor impotent cuckold, smiles slyly at the thought of your once-great genitalia drying out in a clay urn atop Hera’s mantle. It was a fine scrotum, and served you well — why, oh Winnie, did you tempt the Fates?

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