With pomp and purpose, fat men decorated in pretentious garments sashayed within the city walls, buying up all available provisions for the upcoming soiree. Their wives were overwrought with delight, as the 3rd annual “party for the privileged” began.
Their host was a curious man, with a baritone voice. He wore a festive mask and carried golden balls the size of grapefruits, in an elaborate briefcase, for no apparent reason.
Amidst a cavalcade of ostentatious costumes, the host grew wearisome. Loudly, he yelled out “YO, FUCKTARD,” in a tone that struck the audience in a most terrifying/harrowing manner. Lesser men were submerged with fear, afraid of getting entangled in some sort of uphill scuffle with the masked man—who carried golden balls the size of grapefruits, in an elaborate briefcase—for no apparent reason.
Needless to say, they fled the scene in a most expeditious manner.
Neatly decorated women gawked at the masked man through their monocles, amazed by what they saw him do next.
In what can only be described as “imbecilic senselessness,” the masked man, with the bullying voice fit for a barbarous ruffian, jumped into a florid cannon made from solid gold, which was laced with decorative silver jesters and harlequins, then proceeded to launch himself, mind you, into the adjacent acreage—which was replete with “leprechaun green” stringed beans.
So goes the story of the masked man.
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