My sister was in town for the holidays, and it was generally great fun.  One thing I learned about her–she is an awful storyteller.  She started to tell the boy a story, and I ungraciously interrupted to suggest that she tell “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”. Her telling of this was so terrible that he couldn’t take it anymore and started to tell his own story.

“Roary the Lion” by the Boy. (with some liberties taken in the paraphrasing)

Roary was walking down the street, and then a car camed and zoomed over him. And then he died! And then he went to the three bears house, and ate all their porridge, and ate everything in their house, and ate all the bears. And then he went back to the zoo. And then the bears came out and went back home, and they saw that the porridge was gone, and they cried. So they  made cookies instead and sat in front of the fireplace and watched the fire and the christmas tree, and they were happy! The end.