Say
it at the bonfire, speak in hot potatoes while the soft-handed blister and
tussle with each other over the lotion and animal husbandry duties. I don't
know much about silhouettes but if you go for that woman's then you're as good
as dead, son, the party don't stop just for her novocaine. Dudes eat a load of
religious stamps in the wharf and
blanket out the catalogue containing no-man's glamour spray. Where the fuck
does one even level up in this olde time setting? That loose invention hasn't
got any instructions on the side or even in the tiny manual that dangles on a
rope at the side. Put it wherever you hope to be British and it's supposed to
light up like a nightclub after an hour of slicing and dicing and giving up ink
in Rotterdam. If you do die, if you should, then let it be dabbling in dead
spots filled with CVs and pirates who would take these dossiers of vital
information for nefarious ends. That tall one likes to trick people with his
soggy shirt and embarrassing lay. Rather than running around, find all the
relevant items and cram them straight into your sports-loving mouth with half
of your stair-like teeth protected by a guard. You're a clamp, a flask and a
few loose evening tiles landing in a fish bowl to the marching bat of Holy Shit
troops.
Since
when did this turn out turn to shit and turn, turn, turn again? Was it the
movement of an inspector of screen options and workaday ennui? Try to kill
somebody, just load-up the ambush and slaughter a fat neck because the guys are
really kind of easy and not worth losing your lunch over, even if that sort of
stuff turns them on. Turns, turns, turns like a likelihood. Get up at the
attack of the curve, raise the dentures and let the monster see in the dark for
his Happy Family game. Something created will still hurt with hits and once
every thousand years. The rest come in bites at the good play, thus evening the
odds. Stay tuned amongst yourself, dodging bullets and general rainfall in the
muddy terrain. Copy the boxes, tick them as they come with graining pens and
ferryman signatures. The real reason I stress this is because I'm going home to
announce a wild and illustrious plan for queer culture. Hint: it'll involve
unprecedented access to virtual reality.
Hilarity
hedges its bets on clarity of focus and the voyeurism that many appeal after
for the sake of making brains and ears alike bleed varicose fluid for a yard
and then a kilometre until all we're left with are the deserted and complicated
by scarves and ovular darts tournaments that just keep going around and
underneath and around and loop-de-loop and other big deals for the Big Deal
corporation that sit in their lonely towers in the hopes that someone new and
fresh and only peripheral will bring books and speak in garden lingo.
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