It's storytime, Richard.

It's storytime, Richard. We're ready, Richard. Times have changed, Richard. Are you still aching from all the sitting during the half time garage light superbowl show? Used to be my favorite and least expected imposition, now it's kind of making its way to floor eleven, where the children seek to.... mMmM-ELIMINATED! Or...once in a while THAT pain Richard gets in his lower back some nights. I can't vouch. Word on the street says it's not only legit, but the neck boil produces REAL pus. Not going to contest the weepers. There's already been enough emotion running through the bottle scrapers; I'll leave this up to the del Homme judges and they'll decide which electrode to denounce and which check to elevate to legendary status come Threevember. Over and out, church bells have sounded - you know that means we've gone too late - and - I'm overdue for stellar fungo practice. Isthmus backed in turmoil.

Eyes from high towers see both sides approaching; run and hide.

Taciturn bed rest monikers are finally making a comeback. They'd been dormant for a few decades, waiting in the wings for stale cedar shim Julep bumps to crimp upon arrival. We are, however, still waiting on word from the superintendent about the errant claim that all restitution for bobcat grease be run through P.R. queen and self described "Loyalist" , "Xpharma". She apparently has some enemies in the purple pill indusfried. Can't fault them for switching over to the deep fried modalities.

I can't remember if it was one or two bookmarks that signaled Cush entreaties, so I'll default to fomented combinations of weaponry-design cumberland-stromboli witch-cask pumps. K. I think I'm ready for my sponge bath lair chants.