12/10/2013 - ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL

All, all, all, all, all, all, all white men are at once both yaks and themselves. They shelter in hydraulic stations and remark about all, all, all the gay porn they managed to duck and dodge (except the homosexual ones who wear brown fedoras to forget about such travesties) and all, all, all, all, all the fireworks they massaged and lead out through the Soviet Paramour’s renal valves. The surf is indeed riding high to the yield and won’t filter down the hilt until the puppeteer perfectionist has slaughtered his own string maker with fatherly jibes and jabs. It’s do or die, it’s definitely definitive as far as sightseeing goes.

As some sow the wind with tampered genuflections, the rest of us casted men will add flavour to our stock characters and shuffle out the women before they make a nuisance of themselves. This could easily be the case for some of them; we’ve spent so long listening to their intelligence that we can spot the cruelty from eighty crappers away. Measurement needn’t come into it anymore, we’re fine judges ourselves with our wigs on and our favouritism tied together at one end. It’s not a secret you know nor would it ghost the world with foxy bartering.

I could be a broken man, of course, I could be a broken man if that was all, all, all, all I actually wanted to do with my time which it isn’t. I much prefer to be the Lantern’s Idiot, a gentleman who spends his time chattering away to tall dry grass stalks and not doing much at all about valediction. It’s electric discovery that drives up the tally marks, tickling the blonde representative with unique impropriety. As well you should, as the saying goes in a paraphrased sort of fashionable way. Yes.

It’s going well. At least it’s going comparatively well for some sepulchre and its son of a bitchy gun. As the refractory said to the refectory, HOES AND BOXES GO ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER, NOT ONE INSIDE THE OTHER. DIPSHIT. SURELY THAT WAS PLAINLY APPARENT. I’m not a good man for such a simmering job, not such a white man to stand up for a few keys and a blank screen running whirring sounds in its upper portions and slide bits. Letting go of the basin will be just as the product placement tester expected with all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all downsizing have a route inside the business that actually worked and ran deep enough to climb through. There are supposedly forty five desks to slacken and dot with jetpack memorabilia so we’ll probably never get round to our planned daytrip to the New York Congress Library. Perhaps if we breath very usuriously we might be accepted into the hall of political insults and occasional ineffective scandal. All these things carry their own bite, each one less malicious than the last. We rank them in descending order like so and so and so...