European
functions: solicitation, inebriation, saddling up, flagging down, legislations.
Operations work in anaemic but fully registered ways. The man with the forehead
and the beard wants to eat your harvested advertisements, he wants to scoff the
treble clef and make a rapid retort to all sci-fi fans, something in the spirit
of 'Ay, aw wazzocks!' Critics say that it isn't a sport and they really don't
care who wins unless eleven trouser presses are involved in the prize-giving.
The devil is alive and well in the tidy bedroom where all the bronze and silver
medals are kept to keep them stuffy and beefy.
There
was only four slices and the thorny thirty percent are frying the placentas in
bacon grease. Where has the freshness gone? Is it somewhere ludicrous? The
warbles I've been hearing, have been bearing down on me like a sauna full of
earnest teaching assistants which is to say not too badly. I'll try the toast
but you should know that I'm going to turn it down quicker than a titanic
hallway through the shuttlecock night. Wherever you go you should always brook
a storm with the thin bit between your legs, that's the keystone method that
most monkish fellows like to use provided that the ladies aren't looking with
their metallic beat downs in readiness. Everything shakes up everything else
and the hair we pull loose is not too straggly that we can't make polished
guitars with them. It's not the sort of thing that ever stops play, it doesn't
even stunt its growth let alone hold its fire. We say fuck, it says gladly. We
say prepare to open the door, they say stitch that my old son. We say go on to
become a memory, they say we've already had one thanks and that made us puke
for a fortnight. The corporeal confessions come only after minutes of
fine-tuning and calculator button pressing and they come in neatly-wrapped bags
with paper tags at the top. We wouldn't just trust our nerdy vices with anyone.
And
if you should ever find yourself lonely and in dire need of company then make
amends with the devil, he has a pocket filled with something akin to womanly
hips and he'll let one drop out if you give him the passkey to chocolate
heaven. He's a horned gent with too much of a sweet tooth, hence why he hasn't
actually done much in recent times. The true-hearted individual will reclaim
the kingdom with the final knock on a raft-shaped door, they're hearts will
curl into something cuter than a kitten in a basket and will cause their pain
receptors to bleed. Carrying on does nothing more than maintain maintenance
without the useful aid of a sharp carrot. Don't worry, don't think too much,
don't let the promises hold you back from the big grey goal you made to your
parents in a well-remembered childhood, don't go down to the woods today. Your
next trick will be itself unto itself unto themselves.
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