Gravel encrusted anise seraphs – the inception of truncated Gash

Narrative belied, express-interest solely hunched between ruckus dispensers frees drenched daffolds and cadres. A pooled registration mule has surfaced! Breathe it in, my own spared reversation reserver, as one small task tends to obey hot air more than dirty logic cubes. Inasmuch the favela hunter is pliably edified despite Gounod’s marionette brothel. Counter all froth mashing in bated free-breath grumble vanities with refereed buster douglas re-run stations. Fill up, be sent out in confidence that your upset memory game is strong; your next refill will appear only in an era of tranquility marked by severe sour cream aversion. Hush! I’m a McFoolerton juggle-naut – the only remaining bastion of gravity testers around since Reynolds McKee bit the dust bunny of Lichtensteinian Prime minister, Bev Rainy. I’ve only just begun to live in this white lace and promise garden, wet with the dew of gab and stained in red guilt. Circle the wagons until you devour him wholly. Newsome pneumonia cnidarian amalgam, pasted tenuously, intuits forcefully a repertoire of death for any illustrated umbrage (Federally). Can’t be certain of the consequences, but the simulations all come out the same: utter and comprehensive Barry Manilow subjugation. It’s not a matter of debate; it’s been settled.

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.

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.