When comes the bagel-bather shall we all peruse the chicken documentary





Linoleum.

Can it be? I think. Please can this. Yodeling with dignity. It lives!! IT GLEEMS!!!

We can't afford to pick up that piece of paper. It's on the floor floorfloor and none of us...NONE OF US...has the proper hat. A relatively chipper cap is Clifford's, but still...fairly moist. Can't have clocks that do THAT, Veronica! HA HA HA HA HA!!!

When the vomit of spring implores you to dance woefully upon the gimp, it won't matter that your oversized foot chart was flushed away. So I say Fleece! Fleece for the digital apricot! Fleece!

Section F-23 - Semen of the anti-cube. *
It's a clever hiding place for loaves. It's an island in a sea of yogurt-flavored strawberries. It's when you say your lover is cheese, your lover is cheese. You don't even -THINK- when you hammer away at the ottoman. Tandy thief!!!! Only a glorified postcard impersonator can dial this. So cure your toast and frolic, wise antler-boy! There's only so much wheat in the desert.
 
 

-----Chapter Six--
Odor and the Rabid Planetarium

Anyway, back to the elves. Sodomizer-bot, the olio king, is only so weasally as the nun beam will allow. There are limits, you know... and there are also cabbages (although most of them aren't named Eddie.) Hypodermic exothermic polly wanna new detergent. Sorry. Most things that make the following noise; "STRANK," are capable of knocking it the hell off providing you step on them regularly and brush with Dent-U-Teeth (TM,) a product of the holy underground biscuit tree.

Q: Lo, tho your testicles swivel and Tyrone prances by (he's everywhere you want to be,) death can be laminated. And despite recent government regulations restricting the exorcism of disembodied cuisinart replicas to a 5-meter safety zone (currently inhabited by an astoundingly large apricot with a booger on it,) I still want a pear.

MORTAL WOMBAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Customer service, customer cervix, customer furnace, pop. And so let it be shouted from the wettest hilltop, sung from the tallest water treatment facility, and whispered in the darkest Playtex outlet store by pompously overdressed prunes with no tap dancing talent whatsoever. Let it be known throughout the goat, nay, throughout ALL goats, that one fish...ONE FISH ALONE...can fit in this here wallet. The rest? They won't be taken. They mustn't be inhaled. They might be giants. They WILL be flogged, and not in that nice European way either. I speak of Gotham City jetlag and Antonio Banderas' rectal disorders (fig. 3), and is it for naught? Your expression, that "I just poured carpet cleaner in your yogurt" expression you wear to tea parties and lesbian dental schools, to hatrack festivals and readings from the book of famous celebrity turds (be nice, be nice,) is all you have to show, despite the endless gallons of paste I've stolen in your name. You ought to be ashamed. Or shot. As should your five(5) eggs-of-the-way.

I say to you that all furniture can be exchanged for for pudding, and that all pudding can be watered down and served as a cure for nostalgia (provided it is taken nasally, and with a complete disregard for the plight of the Canadian Claw-Toed Carp, which is nearly extinct, quite hairy, and tired of reading your mail.) And you, you hypocritical analytical stereotypical beast of burden twirling your way through life on a broken wastebasket, you must rise up! You must stand on your own two feet (or a reasonable hand-drawn facsimile) and scream "HEY!!! These aren't raisins!!!"

Waitress?

-=ShoEboX=-
A tasty tropical topical analgesic in a cloud of cones.













* A note about the anti-cube. The anti-cube, Seth, is within us all. It makes onions out of blossoms! It can turn diamonds into coal! It dips and weaves, it is the dancing baby of justice, and its camel has diarrhea and a nice sweater.

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