Monday, December 28, 2009

internal combustion device

Over the river and through the woods, to Jimmy Jamison's house we go. Tantrums are the pinnacle of my obsoleteness. What does the Yellow River Game Ranch have to do with my gloves? I think it pertains to the handyman repairing the overhead console. Taper down to the gangrene removal machine, says my pancreas. Fourty snake babies are protruding from the cavern at the back of the overture. I believe the Sega tapes are being used as frisbees in the cosmic game of smoothie making. Do you underestimate the bankrolling of matador neutering?

1 comments:

stappage said...

This is preposterous. There is no need to analyze any opponents that may propose so-called "hissy fits". Unlike conniptions in which we pull throw large metal objects at out heads. Henceforth, a matador can be inclusive as expectorant. Usually there is a repetitive sound of an axolotl swigging sawmill gravy out of a kettle.