11/20/2021

SmellsFargo
16 Reviews

SmellsFargo
6
Requiem for a midsummer's night dream
You wake up after a night of lucid dreaming where Rhianna doesn't turn you down and allows you to smell her farts. You remark to yourself that you never gave your bed the credit it deserves as it always takes care of you when it's time to have a chat with Mr. Sandman. After you stretch, you get up and notice neither your pet lion or US senator are in neither of their beds, so you go to walk outside and suffer a slight cut in your palm; you forgot to tell your slave to replace the missing diamond in your doorknob, so that's an extra beheading you have to look after.
You're annoyed as hell already and you've only been up 10 minutes, only to discover one of the members of your harem has the audacity to be menstruating; welp, another beheading you think to yourself. And to top that off, your wife asks you to give her some cunnilingus for her birthday, and you tearfully remind her that eating pussy is Haram, as you say your goodbyes as she pleads not to be sent to the gulags, you tell her what must be done will be done. As your life is falling into shambles, You open the patio doors and gaze upon the beauty of the seemingly endless amount of poppy seeds being harvested by your imported contractors *cough slaves cough*, and think you know what, times aren't so tough.
You later find yourself unwinding by sipping on a 300 year old congac crafted by the descendants of Blackbeard, after a long day of ordering 30 beheadings and the death of the infadels.
Turath finally wears off, and then I'm transported back to reality where I'm just living a normal existence, no stable of whores, no opulence, no fields of poppy to turn into opiates to fund my acts of terrorism; just normalcy.
You're annoyed as hell already and you've only been up 10 minutes, only to discover one of the members of your harem has the audacity to be menstruating; welp, another beheading you think to yourself. And to top that off, your wife asks you to give her some cunnilingus for her birthday, and you tearfully remind her that eating pussy is Haram, as you say your goodbyes as she pleads not to be sent to the gulags, you tell her what must be done will be done. As your life is falling into shambles, You open the patio doors and gaze upon the beauty of the seemingly endless amount of poppy seeds being harvested by your imported contractors *cough slaves cough*, and think you know what, times aren't so tough.
You later find yourself unwinding by sipping on a 300 year old congac crafted by the descendants of Blackbeard, after a long day of ordering 30 beheadings and the death of the infadels.
Turath finally wears off, and then I'm transported back to reality where I'm just living a normal existence, no stable of whores, no opulence, no fields of poppy to turn into opiates to fund my acts of terrorism; just normalcy.