Don't
touch the hypochondriac, he's undergoing hydrotherapy and is not to be
disturbed. This is a serious warning, one with bells and winks and goosy
handshakes. Take your trouble elsewhere before I trounce you with my leftover
sandwich baton, it's crammed full of truth. I'm on planet leave, you see and
have a lot of time on my hands for trouncing. If only the juxtaposition was
quite as fitting as my departure had been smooth, then we might actually be
getting somewhere on this report. Yes, the report is in this Friday and your
pushing daisies enough as it is. The King shall not be pleased, the Queen will
halt your progress into her bed chamber. It's a big turn-off to use the wrong
kind of ink on yellowing paper. I lost my senses that way, now I can't smell or
orgasm without severe aid. It's like indigo on the wallpaper, it doesn't really
protrude lightly nor does it lend itself to artful projects. I am the soul of
this investigation and you are turning out to be the prime elevation of my
diverse interrogation. Shifting in chairs shall not work while we're trapped in
this sand dune of opportunity. It's plain to see that beginnings have no
triumph to them these days. It takes a wholesale reference to get key stages
off the hook and down the hatch before the Queen has chance to spread her legs.
She's getting very good at that, by the way. The King has got this metal device
he brings out for long parties.
I'm
digressing. I do not want you anywhere near that hypochondriac, not while he's
bathing in the translucent glow of childhood verse. It's sweet to watch him
question existence like that again, on the potty and down the gyroscope. Like I
said to the mountain girls, it gives me hope in a world that only knows about
meat delicacies. The jokes on you when it comes down to the tits and bits of
lifestyle, racial slurs are in fact a way to appropriate horny harems. The
christening is beginning soon enough and I am fresh out of paper clip designs,
you'll need to produce the essential details before we go in. The drowning
sounds will provide a nice background music as we show off our calves and all
their statistics. Bottoms up to be branded by Wet Nurse Matilda. We don't get
to call her Sister anymore, not since the picnic and the drawl of the man
sitting next to her. Fucker stole our basket full of goodies. Mindless midfield
ethics are the only thing keeping him down so we better make use of your
volatile intrusiveness and sic the bastard with logic. If it's made me tired
then it's bound to drop him like some stone anvil. To borrow a phrase, the
candle is not a toy for the cretins but a wish on a stick, so let's go get this
over with. Who knows what the King will say.
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