The
basis of television is to hit the crevice before it hits back. The devil has a
way with irons and leaflets and will never go as far to tell which he will use
at the next opportunity. He is a vile person who carries a basket around purely
as a fashion accessory. To be honest, we suspect he cross-dresses and hangs out
with the pope down the Theist Thirst bar. Disgusting things happen in there,
particularly all over the pulpit. That's why they attached handles to either
side, so they could remove it at ease and lift it out of the doldrums like some
seeping liquid. Stupidity is infectious and waistbands are the only way out of
the hottest situation of your mind. Penis of Wrath and weeding out the
ambulances go hand in hand if it weren't for pubic opinion. Stupidity saved us
all once but that was so very long ago that not even the elders without ear
trumpets can recall. The air was salty with darkness and I couldn't remember
where I left my yo-yo. It may have been due to a deficit but I really couldn't
say.
Enough
of what I couldn't and can't do - let's discuss raisins and the virulent
despiser. Spite is like a ruby fruit; it curls open and vies for union
territory with the best of the slug bitches. Its campaign is harsh and often
involves the defecation of drawer space. Circumvent this happiness and elbow
out the eyelashes like someone's open-ended argument. Science is not exact nor
is it friendly towards baby hair. Ah sweet guacamole of love. Prudence and
fidgeting are incompatible when you should be playing with silver whips. God
owns all the forks; they are his thorns and wayward flicks.
Before
I go on into discussions of deities and their tendency to pilfer thingamajigs
and fiddlesticks, let me turn the topic back onto larynx-filled arachnid bags.
They have abdomens for thrusting and chimney sweeping equipment for pouring
their hearts out. Lame statues and crusty walking sticks: get them out of the
vault before they go off and rule some petty army. Violence is always the
answer to daft questions involving revolving nightmare strips. The cheek is
quaking and the lips are immobile. Go to the shrine and forget her before they
find out you ever knew the colour of her hair. I am fluorescent and therefore
shall sing out against atrocities that vary from the quibble to the squadron.
Homespun drivers are homespun drivers; let us not beat them with their own tail
pipes. I have bracelets, these are much more effective. Cousins of light waves
are not the issue here, you are. Don’t go turning to the left, don’t go
twitching to the right, go up in the air and don’t come down again until you’ve
made an agreeable decision that verges on sexy.
Blow
it out your arse and waivers will follow in stream of quiet confetti. How
lovely is the sound effect on the soul?
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