“We need to make some money, I think,” he continued. “A… a PRAH-DUCK or somethin’…” He thought and thought.
“I got it!” he said. “Let’s sell chicken pot pies, on accounta we gotst so many chickens!”
It was settled. Timmy grabbed an axe and set to work…
Part Two: Fat little Timmy Bradley in the striped shirt saw that the farm needed a swift kick in the ass. But being a dumb fuck (as most children in story books are) he didn’t know what to do. So he sat and sighed and sat and sighed until his one, lone, inexplicably present cow came lumbering over.
“Hi, Bertha,” Timmy sighed.
Part One: It was another dismal day on the Bradley Chicken farm.
