When I arrived home from farming the fields, my wife suggested I be seeded. She gave me a baleful look. There was bad news. It appears someone stole harvest. “Somebody dung us wrong, in an awful manure,” she said. I was upset, and wanted to cull the crops, so they could catch the fallow. “I till you, he must sty!” Such events make farmers almanac. Indeed, it seems like part of a larger plot, made my mind acre just threshing out the possibilities. When I finish with him, he won’t be live, stocking at all.
(9 votes, average: 4.56 out of 5)
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My wife was just herbicide her self when Robert, the sheriff, called the next dairy to say he had tractor stuff down. The escaping thief had taken a rut turn and plowed into a ditch so he didn’t get furrow tall. I was really irrigated but this was the guy’s first off fence and since he did tell Bob wire he’d stashed our crop, so he was released on bale. Hay, I just loft the way this ended but I grass you probably straw that one coming, unless you were barn yesterday.