A Bit of Math Followed By a Unique Disquisition.

To plow a random coastal whisper trial for the sole purpose of assuming a position of dread and asperation will become a temporarily jaded thrill-avoiding viscount, perforce a knot of wicker-headed drums. If this seems incomplete, the addition of table-tested, flame revealing oak dinner ware should bring a trifling contentment into all of our solemn deliberative noontime storyboard hosteries.

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We consider ourselves exemplary of the very well known lovers of temperature. The grade that we inhibit will be our own. There are no steady whipping sounds escaping from our capitalized breeding pond. I'll be paying extra close attention to a 'black box' she says I've hidden. Thing is: all my usual hiding places are plum full-out of shock. The trading day is one good time to recall all the numbers and ask ourselves if being willing to say the wrong thing is a virtual ticket to a period of mumbled denials. Why should this scare anyone? Beats me.

Our lines are boldly fictional. If my speech impediment had not garnered the approval of one so unfeeling, then my kind of people should alter the screen of meaning from within a cherished platitude. Some ways are modes of description while the barely audible knocking continues apace, one incongruously colored space at a time. Blame it on the Bossa Nova. If you don't believe this then have I got news for you!

I removed his penis from a water bottle that had been abandoned on the third floor. The quivering had stopped a while back and now all that remained was a stationary terrified bulk. Sent in two by two, the pathetic creatures live for the chance to call some obligatory festering ground home. Preliminary indications are all to the plus side but reining Sandra in is proving to be a task worth shirking. Sure, we'll call you and not think twice about it, because this is the way we do it. Our home is your den. Your pillow is our night light. Her studious attitude is my watered down sense of despair. His ever present obligatory non-committal functionality is her overblown fissured plastic wig. Why can't anyone ask the Breyers whether they won't have another beverage? Is it hidden in their car? Would I know if it wasn't?

Tell me I'm joking and only then will I ask  those who matter about my interest in clogged investment tides. It's a good bet that they will reply the way they always do, with a shrug and a boner. I'll pretend not to notice but that won't fool anyone, not anyone who counts, that is. Count me in and that will be it.

Come at us through every means at your disposal and we might consider wishing you well, in a way that arouses no suspicion, first time, every time. Because this is a plea to the firstborn scion of the triumvirate of punks who (for some weird reason) associate banter with carports. But this time speed is all that matters. It's a tribute to my notional jealousy that whispering my name in a public place will get you drafted into my private security detail to rig the wave of defenestrations all the way to a nasty rag.

And finally, as if all the above failed to trigger the over-compensated nitwits who rule the rest, try this: think of a kind of beam that you may have failed to take into account. No, not a wooden beam but a beam of yummy energized bronchial position sequences. They're (right about now) playing havoc with that 'thing' you call a roof, and by the way, it (the roof, that is) is not the one over your sorry head. It's the other one. The one you never like to think about or it could get you killed, metaphorically though, please be assured. Goodnight. 

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