Once upon a sun-drenched afternoon in the whispering woods of Wackadoo, Bob, a paunchy middle-aged hiker with a flavor-saver beard and knee braces for added adventure pizzazz, trundled along the pine needle-strewn path. Bob's most intimate relationship was with his worn leather boots and his extensive collection of flannel shirts, which boasted hues that would make a rainbow weep with envy. Bob was about to settle for another uneventful trek when a rustling in the thickets drew his gaze. There, emerging like a cherub from a dusty Renaissance painting, was the most astonishing sight Bob had ever beheld--a twink, as free as the day he was born, trotting au naturel through the foliage. His skin glimmered with innocence, and each curly lock on his head appeared dipped in sunshine itself. For a fleeting second, Bob's heart did a triple salchow. This was his woodland fantasy come to life, much like a unicorn might leap from a child's storybook--only with fewer sparkles and decidedly more flesh. Bob, concealing himself behind an ample trunk of an elderly oak, peered through the leaves, his eyes wide with a cocktail of awe and a smattering of lust. The twink, oblivious to his wide-eyed spectator, stretched and pirouetted before prancing towards a crystalline lake that lay nestled among the trees like a secret. The water was still, the air scented with pine, and as the twink approached the water's edge, he paused, his silhouette a seductive siren's call against the shimmering surface. Suddenly, with the grace of an amateur gymnast at a boozy backyard summer fest, he leaped into the lake, sending ripples across the tranquil haven. Bob squinted as the twink dipped his toes, then his ankles, and soon he was paddling with abandon, disrupting the silent orgy of dragonflies skitting above the waterline. Bob, in an almost hypnotic state, had forgotten to breathe regularly; his pulse raced as he witnessed a Dionysian display that nature documentaries would shy away from. Without warning, as the twink arched his back, rising from the cerulean depths like a Botticelli's Venus, a sound sliced through the serenity--an operatic release of trapped wind, a concerto of flatulence in E minor. The surface boiled with bubbles, and to Bob's astonishment, several fish floated to the surface as if to protest the inhalation of such pungent perfumes. Yet, Bob--his crush undeterred by the cheeky chemical warfare--could only marvel at how the twink managed to blend the grotesque with the gorgeous. It was as though Cupid had traded his arrows for whoopee cushions, and Bob was utterly smitten. No longer merely a middle-aged hiker, Bob was transformed into a teenage boy, blushing behind the safety of his oak bastion. The twink, gleefully unaware, continued his frolic, leaving no prismatic shine upon the water as evidence of his gaseous rebellion. Bob tiptoed backwards, entranced, his heart thumping with the thrill of this bizarre romance--from that day on, his hikes would be imbued with the hope of the legend of the Toweling Twink of Lake Wackadoo. And as the sun dipped below the treetops, the forest whispered gossipy leaf-laden tales of love--and a twinge of flatulent humor--that would live on in the giggles of squirrels and the knowing winks of wise old owls.