10/08/2013 - YOU ARE A WRETCHED BEING

You are a wretched being getting stuck into lazy expense. What magnificence of anatomical holes! What fine malleable rolling pins! Give me the shells for five fifty an hour. So the bimbo headquarters comes to grips with the grave flatulent forty eight that resides in its system. Lesser guns walk the full mile like a massive computer curry.                         There are so many reckless wastelands over the nuclear plant.  Sometimes it amazes me that...line! This time the contract will finish you off for good. Was there an action? An impending force that weaves swoosh into                  ripple effect seconds. The poop! The poop! The poop of winter! Running comes from younger patients, purely to channel Memphis in nineteen fifty seven. The script flays the vortex, tempers it with anti-matter bar-walking. The relocation to different spots inevitably leads to Camelot. Come on you pansy, it’s time to be overtly despicable for once in your lily livered needs. Ten seconds to go, effortless and uninformative where utter crap is concerned.                              As for you, the one they call The Spanner Cane, time demands less of you. You need to cut the monumental crap and back away from the defensive production line before you fiddle about with anymore livestock. It’s not even astronomical, it’s just astrological and nobody can let go of the unfortunate spelling error. Typo – is it a typo? It’ll do, it’ll see the matter through to the end of its implosive spectacle. Your few words are probably better off being alone and wretched, just for the sake of the children who might suffer had they not been kept away with them. If you were in the middle of a battlefield, what would you do?         Read scenes. Step toes. Farthings. Salad forks. Keep down. Retain the messiness with Viking helmets. Back the dream weaver afterwards.

 

Goofy pigeons are the only things that can make it through the night that can even find the will to bake at the end of everything that fell. As far as crowbars go, the tepid nature of this particular burst of hatred is not enough to crank up the martyrdom. Not that we care about sponsorship or other giggly attempts at emasculation. Do you have any water           at the end of the interpretation? The second to last marriage figures are opinionated enough and distressing within our epic imaginations. They’re only epic because we’ve trained and trained and covered the budget with Korean tapioca.              There are many reds and greys dulling the palate, casting aspersions on the filler plate, rendering the crab claw delicacies three dimensional zeppelins of seafood. Don’t slash the bags, dude, the animation emaciates low floored testes enough as it is already. Meanwhile the opus matches everything else, justifying the bigger bits of pieces, the kind of ‘What if-s’ that placate the lethargic avatar with eschewed nutty intentions. Those who don’t understand will be ducked in                one      genius                                      liquefied with crazy        pants and managed by disgraced       walkie              talkies generation by generation. Having seen it, you’ll spoil through.