Tortoises and snacks

Somebody said I should write about my experience with the carpal tunnel gnomes. "Somebody" is a euphemism for antelope ticks. So here goes.

I went to the rolling pin for some tubular advice. He/she said my hombre was justified in rapping about granules. I don't know whether I took offense, or if I was stupendous. Either way, that whatchamacallit sent me down to the river to see if there were any underwater globes to be had. There I encountered the carpal tunnel gnomes of yesteryear. They keeled over in dismay when I told them of my fascination with horticulture. Although they didn't have much to say, they did entertain me to the point of undercooking my deer sausage.

Yelping for cookies

Over there is my panda bear shaped grape soda. I procured it from the hospital when Tomathy was there next week with an appendix bypass interruption. Don't think the attending prosthetic didn't notice my be-gloved-ness, or the jamboree infestation in my Pinto. Undoing mass migration is the business I hope to be in when I graduate from the state college of Umbro shorts. Or there may be snapping pigeons on the Phil Collins statue on the square in Madagascar. Photo finishes are a hobby of mine, since I ate that camera a few tape guns back. I once doodled a doodle of noodles when I was huffing arctic sea turtles. Don't judge me by my overreaching habits, says the orbital bone infection.

Artifacts

I fell off my tricycle at the profile camp. Handing me over to the golf club manufacturers caused a yam infestation of the medulla oblongata. Therefore, I must take a full month prescription of Valtrex to put the fire out in my trachea. Justifying my internal biological clock will help pay for the operation to fill Shoeless Joe Jackson's shoes. Giving in to my compulsions, I ate the Barry Manilow 8-tracks I had been saving since next November. Lofty expectations may, however, cause me to recoil Slinky protectors. Have a field day with my understood implications, says Mr. Bond. James Bond.

Not usually a fan of serious blogs, but...

...here we go.

I am grateful.

I am grateful that my family is healthy.

I am grateful that my wife accepts me and loves me in spite of all my screwups.

I am grateful that my friends and family support me, even when I make choices that don't make sense at the time.

I am grateful that I have a good job, even though I sometimes complain.

I am grateful that I have a job at all.

Mostly, I am grateful for all the blessings that have been unconditionally given to me, and undeservedly so.

For those of you who I have mentioned in this post, I am grateful for you. Please always remember that even when I complain, and even when I don't seem to be appreciative, in my heart I am eternally thankful for all the wonderful things in my life. And I am thankful for your time in reading this.

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?

don't turn the clam

Down the hatch. So says the grapefruit, as he barrels up the interstate on his moped. Underlining the hamburger seems like an illustrious grope at reality. Float by yourself out of the grotto, but not as slowly as horse hair soup. Idlely taking the heat out of namecalling is a gigantic sneak. Oh for the sake of petulence goes the rastafarian moose. Don't grab the lavatory taco.

onto the bleating parsnips

My goodness, what a purty step-grandfather clock. I mean, it couldn't be that the snarling owl babies have returned from their sojourn into gamestop. No of course not. More likely that hardened egg crates have been infused into the world of tarts and cookies. Although mostly unfurled, the pandemonium surrounding the Armenian marching band has been blown out of prepositions. All the gravy won't be accused of robbing a banded goat. Flapping out of the hardwood forest, we should yelp with discouragement at the frozen rolling pin. Enter the jalopy eating cakes.