During Roman times, the Self-Same
Peace Triumvirate was merely an organisation of very well-honed individuals,
the types who attend gyms like churches and place their fists against their
hips. But now they’re exam officers, wielding fanciful quips about shanty guns
that obliterate the night life of any given tissue salesmen. These are the
elements of a car alarm: going on, glowing with clout, same-sex marriage
affiliations though not all car alarms are so lasting in this final regard.
Schoolteachers just don’t want to be shackled down to the trace line anymore;
they want to extract art from history and special Victorian knowledge from
science that really couldn’t apply to today’s munificence. Our world is now
full of women gamers who just want the caterwaul to extrapolate their more
coherent honks with typescript once in a while, out of common courtesy. These
are our chums larking about in merchant water; they are splashing their heels
for medical improvement via spiritual impoverishment. I blame the harems.
I remain a dramatic inhalation of a
game as provided by the theoretical party wrangler on his days off in the Sea
Shells whilst attending to fading distances that brighten into trees and opened
windows leading out into the everglades. A vehicle would be worse than useful
in this patch of the walkabout; you absolutely have to try by foot before you
get blasted by the tall chief and his unimpressive, unattractive war paint. I
don’t actually believe that it’s war paint because the politics would be just
as obvious behind it and I can’t quite wrap my head around that reticent scent
of Canadian bacon being hung out to dry on the breezy shoreline. Supplies are
running low and jiggling cannot be our only means of increasing productivity in
spite of it. We have to persevere with more emphasis on the word ‘per’, that
devilish prefix. After a few seconds you tend to just stop listening to my
tirades, don’t you? I can’t blame you, it’s the food we give you in vitro. We
don’t even quite know what’s in your system anymore, the rainbow trackers are
run down and their cumulative ears have popped in undisguised retribution.
A
quivering pile of sacrificial moves that delete their hard-knock tea bags.
You're making it quite difficult for my difficulty, my range of kidding and
waves of the trade schools. Submit in triplicate to get ready for foolish fjord
jumping. That is how we go about the ALL ALONG, that is how we listen to
emotional speeches in a gymnastic game of stupid and stupidity. We go through
it all at a rate of knots that could help if you just stopped a little to give
them time to get out their furious scissors. Ignore the minty asshole, that's
just the American playing with his pesos in order to improve his mien.
Apologise with salty tears, says the old man, and don't go away without sealing
the cream into the sauce. Buy a cartload, a trolley-full, teetering.
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