06/07/2013 - IT IS ABOUT CLASS

            It is about class just like the tykes in the boardroom that tinker about with jobless heiresses. It's not very intelligent but the fairy eggs do turn life rather nasty with the worthless naming of synecdoche siblings. It's safer to be with a dustmen, far safer though more unkind with its application of stories. I am the daughter of an Irish immigrant who strikes fear into the heart of paragon's everywhere, shambles in the shamrock and the like. It's fast choices who get to see the orphans bereave their subsequent insemination, it's not really real either. Judgement calls, judgement calls, geographical judgement calls. Jack Management becomes hollow like the Mexicans he surrounds himself with.

            There's a desperate plea for insipid snaps, a way to weed back into devil's chin. Nothing else is said to matter for the woman with the aquiline nose, she herself denies any obligations the rest of her family chooses to tie itself to. Let's just say, she isn't very good at the whole homely visage, she isn't the type to straddle hypocrisy unless she definitely can't fuck it up the arsehole. She has options and chooses to relax them at every opportunity. She doesn't except the exemption, she parties on with the runes and shuffles the dead up for vast improvement. If the IF goes, I've an IV to wipe down and smack down and ride up in the chafing area. All it takes is a polite spruce up, a tiny athletic rally to increase potency by eight clicks of a haberdasher's wallet.  It always gives at some point.

            We'd much rather gather the seeds of Bart, the broken emblems of the Parthenon he spread throughout the Easter grass and all those traditions too! Isn't it just a wondrous bound of ineptitude? You're not quite as kind as my fish farm seems to remember, you continue to abuse and hammer in the unlikely details until such a point as Rodney draws out Mr. Thank from behind Neil's coattails and asks him to dance the darkest fandango in the history of disillusioned cryogenics. Who can say what will happen? How would you know their health was up to scratch? It'd deteriorating, in fact. On the way out to level the lever with spittoons packed with Argon. What say you, Goodly Cousin Minister? Chomping the champ with idioms, I'll bet. It sickens to remind the weaver of his parley mistakes.

            Such and such. Blah de blah. Kebabs are forming a hierarchy of these adages and more, they are out there right now and ready to bung up your receptacles with biometric curtain rails. The electronic charge will undoubtedly exceed the quiff as fashion accessory of the past difficult periods of time. It will shatter the shame and go for the shot in a very general manner. It takes all kinds of standpoints to make this world anywhere near as despicable as the Best Played Morons intend it to be. At times, the hypochondriacs seem to struggle even more.