Retro turbo

Bouncing trepidation flirting auspiciously acerca de froth salamander zilch-roast. Kepler thimble prawn, staunchly gnawing and gnarling with gnashing gnu gnocchi presto governors, misappropriated bunch trickles ; jimbo's lullaby through and through the wallace hungary faction.  Insidious umbrella, plush grapple and timber favorites. Thymine and federal highway swiss facets; sarcastic reverence for huckle and Lowly's adventure to Home Depot fills voids effortlessly in context. Grief counseled tanager paste distributors don't have a clue how to retrofit Drug and Sundry into gambled referee carpets. Death caps and smallpox. Missed opportunities and oatmeal. Subpoenaed flamingo smoothies and rubber toast. Bun chunk striped vestige, abroad brain crusted walnut patrons. I've got your number. You are never escaping and we've just begun the purge. Purge your every conception of VAM score restitution Penelope curds.

Thhhhhhhhhhhhhat is correct

Quoth the Cream-puffed midget, Edwin:

"Four generations served their time dumping the sad dispositions; I've seen every one. Through it all, four truths remain:  1. I've got all the time in the world, baby. 2. Recitation is for the weak-minded 3. Buttress for and in severed flipstank. 4. Glyph torr, pressure betwixt shepherd columns." 

You can't make this stuff up. Four weeks into the primary adjudication, a power vacuum has been left for us with no tools for reconciliation. It's not probable to juggle the variable mustard jack-o-lantern clasp with nothing but your feet, so it's probably time to get some extra appendages for your closing time rituals. Additionally, if we recharge the effluence, we arrive at:

1. You ate my homework,  dad.
2. Spill it, fill it, aaaand BE it. Over the hemp butter.
3. Wrists can't fib while christening.
4. As cretins go.
5. Turn and talk with a passerby
6. Appraisal juice tactics

Mallory discontent

Ephraim, syrupcaster, estuary, revival. Turn up the music because my grandmother is in town. She tends to like the heavy metal drum solos because her pacemaker does that, "Boon-sih Boon-sih Boon sih" thing until they are n'Sync and are clicking on all (pi*r^2)*h shapes. Bread and liviiiiiing water, I will commit thenceforth all monies from wake forest etchers to the 3rd rock from the sun's stage manager for his saucy troll collection. As if you've never been up the flywheel Designated Survivor flaps. Turn on your television once in a while and you'll get transfixed by the white noise conditioner specs. Imposing as you may be, I accept your challenge. I've never turned one down, given the utter ... "gimmicks" that are the Chapman talks. Swirlies for the masses. ALL dunked. ALL soaked. Upside down and vanilla, please.

my Atlanta

In the manor, the speakeasy is turnt and beveling. In a manner of speaking, the regency is burnt and reveling; it's doves-down more outrageously supple than milled wheat bricktoads. It's too loud for my Atlanta. I've climbed hills and still find peace in my Atlanta. Under the bridge and near the stadia...Atlanta. Oh, that we would weep for stills and portraits of mossy oak and dark waters punctuated by oil-rubbed bronze chimera Troupes. Our wishlist, ever Guadalupe, will plough through preeminently stained vacuoles uncontested and unmarred (despite refereeing climactic post 10 year anniversary dinner pressure cooker release fights). It's easy when potential energy has been fully converted to kinetic and at the local minimum we've got an easy ride with the wind in our face. Ain't winning any Pulitzers here. I'm just trying to save you the heartache to which I'm well accustomed. It's the heartache that accompanies any miser that grapples with the hard issues while crying hysterically behind peanut butter frosted glass. Challenging times lie ahead. My Atlanta will be the subterfuge.