So
very mean, so very heavy, so must we be. The cup has dithered long enough and
now is the time to rise up in pinkish shirts to slay the Cowboys and Indians
action figures and their racist connotations. The era of hombres has begun -
saddle up, pardner. This the new speed of the CD, it's the hype that has its
own immortal barcode. All the women in this vicinity have taken up masturbation
as soon as my last breath. This was not my doing, obviously. This was the
hereditary encapsulation of the alienated spirit taking effect in drastic
coin-tossing mannerisms. It all really depends. It all cannot help but be
cannon fodder for the purgatory of being thrown head and ankle first out of the
window. If you see anything suspicious just move on and wish me well in all my
future conquests of mind, body and sometimes spirit.
How
very transparent of you, how very translucent of you, how very opaque of you:
these are your choices. Feed them to your rush hour grundle, call up all major
broadcasting networks to express the mess that your heart has just been lain
into. Gesticulate with gigawatts and come off the boil before the
superintendent sees your there and always have been. The watch are tanning at
the end of the month, get your ambitious third series out of the way then.
Bodyguards are nowhere near as Oswald. This means the seeds are devastating not
even of British Secret Intelligence - how on earth can we trust the phrase
'Ta-Dah'? So ultra and yet without distinctive healing powers. At least it has
the right fingers to work the control box.
The
burial ceremony will commence at nineteen thirty. The Yorkshire police,
Yorkshire's Finest, will execute finesse like cheese cutting through wire. The
killers will have to check their contracts and bleed on the dotted line before
the keyboard juice stops hanging on with hellish butt. Sororities and
fraternities will march the barricade and tamper with all the bus shelter seats
just to screw with the bashful populism excited by all the lesbian titillation.
Guardians of Flat Pack meet the Fiercest Laundry to make a classic piece of
children's literature come alive again in ways that the author never formerly
believed were possible. Imaginations are limited by the fear of order, the
strictness of elucidation without hallucination. Time will tell the fruit
machine.
Who
feels like anything from the salad bar? Who art thou to speak of me in this
way? You're a spring-load trap is all you are. The curdled smash of happy
records being sent forth into the knifeman's stronghold as an expression of
disbelief. The moments are as morose as a shit grin. On the night that we are
drunk, we shall see revelations transpire and arouse the penetration of healthy
nineteen thirty right in the buxom configuration. The humanity it will lose will
be staggering but the scissor kicks and urinary tract infections will surpass
mortal teaching.
No comments:
Post a Comment