Attack of the Killer Sprouts

After glugging down five glasses of absinthe with all the grace and charm of a Cockney chimney-sweep, my newly appointed maid, Basil, was set to work peeling brussel sprouts on Christmas Day; not just a handful of sprouts, but millions of the green buggers.  Something must have gone to her head because Basil soon began to report the sprouts were 'alive', that they had little angry faces, and were running around the kitchen.  No doubt, Basil's been out in the grounds consuming hallucinogenic mushrooms again (one of Belladonna's old tricks), either that or gargling Cillit Bang's Black Mould Limescale Remover to freshen up her fishy breath.

"Hurry up, dear" I called joyfully down the stairs, "Dinner is served at 7 sharp.  Only 290,000 more sprouts to go!".