Half Moon and Three Buffoons
By Dick Hyman and Balls Stutts
The sun was high in the middle of the sky as Harold walked through golden fields of wheat and barley. The harlot and her friends were hiding in the breadth of the harvest. Harold told them, if ye whores not work for coin or pay, then I will find other wages for you today, as he rushed after them, unbelting his tunic. Not five seconds after he made that pronouncement, Harold tripped on a wayward porcupine. Unable to pursue the prostitun result of the barbed needles on his foot, Harold proceeded to sob uncontrollably. The short, fat prostitute threw a rock at him and bounded off, her love handles abrasively juggling in the wind. Harold, fumbling with his knickerboxers, yelled soothingly to his mexican work crew “I love you bitches”. Pedro the worker soon bounded after the skinnier prostitute, whoose needle was sill dangling from her arm. He turned to smack her face, a gashoues blast of cigarette ash as soon as his hand impacted her cheek. The prostutes began to livildly and lauvishously remove their undergarments as they prepared to work for their daily pay. Harold the gregarious mysoginistic entrepeneur gwaffed richly with pleasure as he began to reach into his underwear. He then proclaimed as you work into the dusk your bodies become naught but husk. But before you rise on morrows dawn, your house shall bear the house of my spawn. Harold then jumped on the prostutes fists bared with an angrly snarl that resembling that of a small chihuaha with a fire in his heart and a bulge in his pants. The prostitutes then began to punch Harold as he heniously uprously continued to laugh. As they pulled his member from its fleshly an clothy, enclave, they abscounded with its burning fleshy dissected matter off into to the golden fields of wheats and vuluptous barley.
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