With a Half-Moon Shake

Half-baked mumbling nutters running down the street and shoving pointy, pointy spears into fragile and innocent flesh is no way to start a tale, and it is sure no way to make a body smile on an otherwise fine day. But there you have it, and there was that pointy, pointy spear sticking straight out of a patch of fragile and innocent flesh.

You have to call them like you see them, I guess.

“You mumbling nutter,” cried a security guard in a dusty blue jacket, “you mumbling, mumbling nutter!” The security guard saw the pointy, pointy spear go right through the flesh, and he couldn't believe his eyes. Would you be able to believe your eyes if you saw something like that? No, I don't suppose you would.

Well, that mumbling nutter didn't pay any attention to the security guard, and just walked right on (after he pulled the pointy, pointy spear back out again). He knew that pointy, pointy spears had been made illegal under the 1974 “Pointy, Pointy Spear Act”, but when pointy, pointy spears are outlawed, you just know that only outlaws will have pointy, pointy spears.

Anyhow.

That mumbling nutter retrieved his pointy, pointy spear, and shambled down the avenue, with the dusty-jacketed security guard following at a safe distance. They passed a man with a small pushcart selling peach fritters, and the nutter thought about stopping. He thought better of it – the last peach fritter he ate gave him heartburn, and so his doctor had advised him to avoid fried pastries. The security guard stopped for one, though, and had nearly caught up to the nutter again when the saturated fats from the lovely, sexy, peachy fritter coursed their wicked, wicked way to the tricky-dicky neurons in his fuzz-covered melon and he toppled over in a heap.

The mumbling nutter walked back and stood over the security guard.

“Fragile,” he mumbled to himself, “but not quite so innocent.”