The Reprise

It's a sitting churro. One of the biggest fads we've seen since Cop A and Cop B. Halt! Who goes there? It's the worst since Bratwurst congruency test Z - undulating hammer junctions forming in my hard belly stools. Roman University WALTER MAN (hold the wand, point at insecurity, stiffen upper lip and claim sanctuary in tears). Remington politique, grafted murphy jail restitution quelling Boston Creme fears through and through, munching sarcastic termite holograms. It's in the cards, they said, It's when Menards, they said, spreads its fiscal arms out and hugs all ideologies in agreement with their flooring adhesive. Shure. I will listen. Only if you use Shure. They tend to be pretty -  HOLD IT BACK BABY . The rushing waters are filled with food coloring and bullied dipole constants. Each molecule representing an individually unchanged stock exchange capable of running several universal economies, splitting and churning like an opening flower, decorated with the dew of the young morning. It's november on Saturn, which means splinter and wrench casserole is right around the corner. "Cry uncle too early and you might be a part of the casserole": the title of my new tawdry burp collection. Took a glance from decane combustion rates and all of a sudden I'm a leading consultant. Fortunately, it's still only the kind of emotional temperature where you can say goodbye quickly without fear of being held responsible for any active recitation of Jungle Book's main theme. Summer licking dachsund sweat! I've entrapped my ulnar nerve and there's no respite. Additionally, my illuminated and entranced sportcoat gelato has finally come to rest, crunchiness aside. The dust has settled. No more time for educated federal grab-bags in tree-trunk spotted cheese chunks on dapper man shaped spree bunks. Camper on effluent Eulogy carts spreading humble knacks for GI Joe hunks. Incipient thrash gauges causing pressure in fertile yak country; plow yuh-huh of course, gosh for a time until salary increases meet meat quota gallery in-seam creases. And, when all else fails, spin violently towards oblivion or otherworldly video game stack modules and cast all cares upon chester gonzo Pooridge slapjack game-playing waffle reservoirs. Wrench bits stuck in the teeth of gluttonous do-nothing Ferber executives combusting consultant banner-led church hoppers. Mickey mouse chrome, turning recipients of ghost-burned adaptability quotients inside out and flopping like actors in fish "tales", as it were. Forever etched in Sri Lanka lore, quay retro Vicks dressage enervates glib and ceramic tribunal remoulades. Mise En Scene for the win, Jell-O, Meet: Paste-J.

Der Frieden

Der Frieden. Die Williams. Immer und immer wieder sind wir zu dieser Schlussfolgerung gelangt. Dass wir diejenigen sind, die für unser eigenes Schicksal verantwortlich sind; dass wir diejenigen sind, die dafür verantwortlich sind, eine neue Ära des Friedens einzuläuten.

Very roughly translated: The Freedom. The Williams. I'm Bird, and Bird Feeders in usage of visas take slush fund ice creams. Unfortunately, the hygienic fur of shaving cream magnate Schick isn't worth her salt. The degenerate, frumpy cow pasture spell is neither Apollo, nor the Freedom slaughterhouse.

Stepson yogurt prince; gmail tact and throwdown

African earmark thwarting stipulations, clause hunting and drain-mulling vestiges. Impolite killjoys are defenestrating themselves from squarely punctuated windows of jealousy. Thus, I've leapt. Falling. Word for word, books sold last year are compiling no small ledger of past differences - ready or not here the number sandwiches come - speeding on the highway and laughing hysterically as the wind removes the mayonnaise slobber from the grainy mouth. I'm wandering through his life. His life is interesting. Lots of vines hanging from the ceiling. It's dripping, but I've got BUCKETS. Whew. Food coloring makes it look like the blood of the damned. Timble swimble mcJumperton Lebron. Famous spells cast only by the most ~pause for station identification~ MMMMGHHHUURRRR I farted... special characters. Handel wouldn't even see this interwoven melody of brilliance. Fart + Sneeze + Burp - Confidence - Privacy = Shame. You know it. We all know it. We've all done it. I just make sure I've balanced my checkbook and drained my sinuses before I go all out. The books wouldn't listen, so the earmarks capitulated. The clause hunting only is as effective as your own desire for Stepson Yogurt. For that, carrying prince purse stain grapplers on one's person could burn the quadriceps so precautionary aloe is carried. Bunch. Gully bravers, and cars filtered through resin electrocution.

instant sorrow for the one who instigates

When we are thoroughly vacated and buttered mentally, we tend to cross over into meaningless trolley hunting. It spurns our maladjusted side hustles. It melds together with our sense of over-flatulated impositions. It dredges upon Mookie Betts' grandmother's grave. Horror on Horror, exponentially thrifty, undressed, rift slapping and hurt berries find it to be exceedingly erudite for the tastes of even the more cultured mudtrucks. The plumage of stained gargoyle laughers is stinking up the empty hallway in her dormitory; the solution will come when I've let go of the reason for wine cooler tannin concentrators. You once were great, but he who began four stapled packets will be sure to complete the remaining lucky number slevin. I don't know. Every time I feel this way I usually defer to the coffee. He speaks better for me than I can for myself. To live is to die and to die is gain - I've heard that before when circling the moon in my dreams.