Try
rockets, if you would be so kind. Treat me with some degree of rebellious
respect, it can be automated or just plain old symbolic. First you need to take
out my weapons and other main functions and then put this factoid on a
bumblebee. This puts some of the shit in order and gladdens the peach-smelling
stuff. What are you implying? What is your mistress implying? Clothesline!
Nothing's here, old bean! We're just looking for civilian trouble. They extort
the gloating capacity to the point of wrinkle effect and then they up and leave
with all the jewellery, all the finery, all the livery. Skaters turn on female
rocks with fixed oxygen that goes instantly faster than light. What we're doing
is crewing a survivor with gnats and pasty flatulence births. The entire game
is text-based and doesn't deserve the fighter instinct or the intravenous cave.
Fuck them all off.
It
nails the security camera with caches of fiery excerpts and palsy owls. The
sparrows laugh and death lurks in its honed cupboard. Meanwhile the IQ raises
dramatically and its prospects become prey to large insects. I was still dying
in the hull maintenance department, becoming a hero of rum. Medicine could be
easily figured out if I were a chick but I'm not so I'll suffer in science, I
guess. They get everything back and give their hunger some assistance through
the feedback of former assistants to band aid emperors. We need to become both the
arsehole and the asshole. THIS IS IMPERATIVE. GOING OFFLINE. STOP REMINISCING.
At
least it's good to think about the pornography that awaits us at the end of the
final jump. The fleet have kindly provided our imminent fall with plenty of
wank material, especially for the colossal inclusion process. We make men know
the period pains of yore, we teach them how to store stoic party hats in the
fat folds of nebulous rot. Space cops knows when the beacon needs to be shot
and orchestrate their fazing system accordingly. The grants are shifting the
windshield well into the sequel and then the prequel or, as it is known among
the fan circuit, that fucking prequel that we'll crimp straws over for the rest
of our bearded pusillanimous days. I'm afraid I can't hear the 'we' in your
words anymore. Now our feature is falling into 'our' feature and that leaves us
rustled.
The
orange oaky doors make tibula and fibula out of captaincy. It does mean
changing the bulb but we'll make the squares as they are commended into eternity.
Oh the siesta. Tomorrow even! HOW MANY WIVES DID YOU MENTION? AND BEFORE THAT?
My crikey lud. Engage reheat again if you haven't already, I need a bathhouse
pause to help me concentrate and perhaps a shot of juice to spruce up the
follicle production. It's flat, so flat, absolutely flat and it keeps falling
out if the other stuff gets to be a problem. Glory be, as they say. These
tumours.
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