The Baker's Badger

Lord Piffle, a man whose fortune was only outmatched by his pomposity, swept into Martha’s bakery with the grandeur of a dust cloud. He surveyed the racks of golden-brown delights with a sneer usually reserved for lesser dukes.

"My good woman," he declared, holding up a slightly irregular currant scone as if it were a biohazard, "this... this is an abomination! It looks like a badger that's lost a fight with a steamroller!"

Martha, a woman whose flour-dusted hands had kneaded more common sense than Lord Piffle had ever encountered, calmly wiped her hands on her apron. "Ah, yes, my lord," she replied, a twinkle in her eye. "We call that the 'Piffle Special.' It's inspired by the very unique contours and disposition of some of our more… *distinguished* patrons."

Lord Piffle’s face, already a rich shade of beet, deepened. "Are you implying *I* resemble a squashed badger, you insolent baker?" he sputtered, puffing out his chest, which, ironically, did make him look a little more like a puffed-up badger.

"Heavens no, my lord!" Martha demurred, though her lips twitched. "Merely that we bake for all tastes. Some prefer a classic, uniform croissant; others, a pastry with a certain… *rugged individuality*. Like yourself, one might say."

Lord Piffle, caught between indignation and a dawning, unwelcome understanding, stuttered, "Why, I never! That's... that's preposterous!"

"Indeed," Martha agreed, nodding serenely. "Just like a badger trying to argue with a steamroller. Now, about your payment, my lord?"

Flustered and defeated by a baker's wit, Lord Piffle fumbled for his purse, paid, and scurried out, leaving Martha to wink at her wide-eyed apprentice. "Never underestimate the power of a well-baked insult," she murmured.