Heterozygous cacophony klawklawpathy
“Overall, we'd wager that you would be fairly complacent with a cornered syringe from Somalia that was purged from the depths of a satyr convention using a combination of geothermal convection and coca leaves acquired from fluids in your airways. We would never suspect such a degree of enthusiasm from you when faced with a carnivorous space mushroom with a lifetime subscription to Showtime, ma'am.”
Correlating with any other means of the acquisition of a more fertile ground for animal control petrol metal, notwithstanding any shortage of mortgage sportage fiending about like a record-style warmer file willing to beguile for a while in any pile within the next mile near the Nile for the sake of a large dial of some special sort of vile to defile, it would seem that the only logical choice to entail a sordidly matriculated decision from a Carlsbad-based core base to deface without a trace of lace or mace (it was quite a race and worth the pace) would be to genuflect within the direct influence or vicinity of any sort of visual obscenity that entails some sort of laughter and effervescent coalescent putrescent.
A typical housing project cannot entail any other way of saying "korkor-kuhkor-kuhkormorlorx" without the need to front an crudely manufactured citizenship granting anyone (annoyingly) to write down their innermost thoughts on a Schaffer paper taper caper gaper and correlate it with any turn of events caused by manic raccoon moralepsy. Katalepsy? Narcolepsy. Not a cryptopsy, TURVY! But butting into the budding of a Buddig bud egg would have dire effects on the innermost workings of a carniveral crile tile from Lyle Kyle. Trust not in your own instincts with confronted with a Karakapace place because it just might melt your face and lead to a benevolent fall from grace.
Heterozygous cacophony klawklawpathy, otherwise referred to as The Poor Man's Lobotomy, can never serve as your one-way ticket stick-it to a picket. Kick it or prick it until you wick it all you can, but Nantucket will not spare any special reservations it has had for you since a crow lived there for a few core hours in the showers. A subsequent exercise of its powers will gift you flowers from its towers. Hindering its status as a gormorshorth empelorr would cackle it's cranes indefinitely with a profound accompaniment of a coarsely-ground critic from an Algerian village named Pitezel.
David Lynch has quite the knack for crafting surreal works of art. If only he could make another one before 2020.
Suppose I marry it?[edit | edit source]
Pizza pots could never suffice for a transnational gubernatorial florid tutorial from an oriole; it'd be just as futile as a game of Whack-a-Mole. Stylish attempts at recreating the living conditions of a Cairo pygmy from mere shimmy jimmy would never stymie the harking of a shoreline herald, Harold. Nor would dragging a garden tool across your face scare Meals on Wheels, either, Ethier. The jetlag compensation would override your gyroscopic tendency to capitulate the magistrate for a third-rate gate fueled by hate, mate. Satiate! and bring down a dinner plate.
As bad as they were, conflation within the nation station would never be Haitian. Grievances abound at these times, especially because of DiNozzo and Foster running around among Faustian (not in the inbred "white power" context) echoes protruding from frozen main mane pains could fictionalize the rations provided to anyone by way of a severely constricting ankle monitor. Raise your vigilance whenever you can and be aware of any other governmental coup stemming from a bronchodilator crater, displaying all the haughtiness of an incel at Intel. Mattel.
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