April 29, 2013

Sweat fair flew from the brow of the Idle Hand, drenching the nearby sleeping crofters. A frenzy of whirl it displayed, galloping from yon to hither carrying and depositing loads of carrion and back again with fervently undue haste. For, you see, japing mockery had penetrated deep to the heart underneath its leathery hide and wounded it to the soul. Never again would any creature, great or small, doubt the Idle Hand’s unnecessary productivity. And so it went for three solid weeks and one or two of liquid until the Idle Hand fluttered in spasm to a gentle rest and spent its remaining years idling, as was fit and proper in the first place, don’t you know.

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