Thursday, August 6, 2009
A lark sits next to the rubbery coils of a octopi that grasps so tenderly. What are they truly meant for?
she(herself) has a special kattarykittenesque that makes teh skins so comfy buy oh how the moon light makes shining segway across the body. I never understood this jewery tomfoolery! That.
Who are these cat attacks upon a scratching post that maul the blacker treat like he's worth the bite. I never got these optical spectaculars that my breaded cohorts engage with.
they pour molasses talk all over and I say fooey. A pox upon them I say. I care not what these watchmakers makes with the function of the times, events. I know not. not...
This is my command you readers. Thdingo knows certainty. certainty. certain.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
It was until my grandiose plan of apples completed prematurely that needles and the steel babies brought attention to my face discontent of the horrid casterburgers of france in which little child actors catch my inner child's attention with their larger child's grown up movie carriage shoppe.
Since when were apples cherries?! Curse their eyebuds!
I felt lone sem today upon my interaction variation distraction of minor prophets that spoke on the tele about the rain and diamonds. Their forcast... Un. acc. ceptatbleimo.
What does the world enter into when cats feed the feet of billions with orange creme? How dare they(you). I love pie.
Hark the pie bishop. There are many.
Peace and dutch be upon you internets...
Thursday, July 30, 2009
They melt, a penguin tux to ashes. Close.
Look at those stars. The Dormouse would look. I have looked upon occasion, preparing for preparatory participation in preliminary proctor parties, that these pants are drowzee. How drowzee.
In three days I flew a coup I will. There will be hangtime party at the institution of that name. I will rejoice and relax into oblivion. I will be blaze. Reading theology of the jewery.
Monday, July 27, 2009
I hath shriveled most profusely, my condiments of glory, used up and replaced with empty plastic good fer nothin's. My cohort jangle, jingled his proud jangle at last, and heaved a heavy stout pickle.
it was salty as my tears. Our guise was revealed. my bruce wayne of sorts. our grapish ruse is but a raisin.
We were as millers, beering out philanthropy amoungst the webs, Though i a steward, watching the condor of gondor still wait for a next time to rally my vice once again...