The Gull of Goo
Using the juice of a spruce moose and a loose noose for a Zeus goose (paired with couscous), it would be wise to remember (but beforehand to dismember) that to survive in November and December, and to avoid burning like an ember as if it's an overdrawn summer in September, you must create an ornate crate (the process of which you will surely hate) in order to incubate whenever it gets late or to trap food using very good bait (particularly food with an abnormal trait, but for those you have to wait) at a very efficient and constant rate (no, this won't work for getting a date), or else you shall suffer a hastened fate, all while knowing that you never got a mate as you draw closer to Hell's gate.
Knowing and showing your love for rowing, alongside the seeds of fame you are sowing, will certainly land you a job with Boeing, and you will be going to be mowing their lawns, which is definitely better than towing their planes. On the other hand, and this'll always work if you're in a band, you can try to very quickly land (the flames will surely be fanned) in the sand, a place where you'll get tanned, and, like every other Wiki, get banned by Rand; the banning ceremony will be very grand or very bland, since things never ever go as planned.
The Gull of Goo, consistently confused for The Skull of You, the Bull of Zoo, and The Goo of Gle, was never seen or heard beyond the vast expanse of one's contessa; rather, since she became fixated on the mechanisms of her philtrum with the onset of a long-overdue commencement of a natural putrefaction, and the fact that dust literally costs a fraction, she was never able to achieve true traction, susbsequently ostracized by her primordial faction in action amidst confusing mathematical subtraction. The Gull of Goo never paid attention to one's innate sense of the immense, knowing that every subject matter was particularly dense with the proximity of a fence of defense. Notwithstanding a minimalized presence, and a sudden dispersion thence, the Gull of Goo paid her two cents, pushing through the pretentious gents as they continued to inflict dents upon their own tents (all of which are paid for by rents in pence).
In some other forsaken dimension beyond the stupid-most reaches of V'vaotoo's sordid interdimensional espionage program, The Gull of Goo is referred to as The Grapes of Wrath, and no, Steinbeck had no part in this other than his phalanges.
Clouded and shrouded and very well doubted[edit | edit source]
It would be wise to note, whilst on a boat, that the rhymer of this article did not use RhymeZone, nor did he resort to eating a calzone behind an AutoZone sitting atop a pile of bone which brightly shone, as if a morbid throne shaped like a cone came included with a phone and it came with an object to hone on loan. Try not to moan, though, with its abominable tone.
Sylvester Stalone is now alone. Post Malone? Al Capone.