So mote it Bianca and
droves of homeless hobo wonderments may come flooding out of the nether regions
and I shall not mention the patricians fax-based methods of dealing with
microbiology. Mother told me all about the cartoons, shat upon a waking person and
then dodged off out of a window in the hopes that she might recollect the frame
and make a tasteful diagram depicting what might have been seen through it at
one time. It’s an activity that makes me want to chase up some of us, the rest
of us if not all of us or rather the whole team but then I am having an out of
body experience and its pretty rad. I could be mistaken but how did we go from
A to B without sliding into G for a base or two? Wheel it in, boys, wheel it
in. The judges and their pet referees are having none of it and you know what
they’ll be like next time we come by this region. Going forward
burstscannonsout and makes me slur in hypotriffic ways, causing trips of the
tonguegarglinglifewaterontherocks. It makes me sloppy to think that such words
are going by unnoticed and unscathed by the police force: where is the
automaton strength? I’m sure the comic book writers and their pet scribblers
did something, pulled a valve or something to make things run smoother and
tidier. I’m only one person.
So
mote it Bianca or, as they call it in the Southern states, a winning formula
going off to pick up a few pails of narked off water. You can tell that the
sloshing is pissed sloshing because of all the ripples and shit. It smacks of
gay licensing charges and, being a big old homophobe, I’ll keep my keys just to
the right side for the duration of this next dude’s speech. I’ve heard it was
written by HeWhoWhatsWithSalamanders, a notorious one for wearing skullcaps, a
bloke with sympathies. Who would rather be dumb in this climate? The
hat-wearing population is going the way of the comic book artist, revolving
around its own central locus in abject despair and fancy glass-blowing. The
gays are organising a protest against the mistreatment of vowels, their first
target shall be the subordinate clauses. News broadcasters say it won’t be
pretty but what do they know? Their muscles glisten and yet their pectorals are
never visible. It’s clearing up nicely out there now so at least we can leave
the poisons behind and give ourselves a well-deserved chuckle at the expense of
the firemen and all their cookie deprecations. It’s so sad that some of the so
few go out and actually choose to become a game developer named
MasterSaucerGunFloatingPastTheWindow but alas we cannot change the garrison
into a frozen astronaut. He has his breath and won’t let go of the implied
gender until you take it from him forcibly. If we take it forcibly he will
never talk to us again. Your fault, I think.
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