High Peckrelferd payments, considered in isolation, don't constitute, in and of themselves, any sort of problem when seen in the context of an object-oriented facial repulsion plague as an announcement is sure to be made in a timely, if incomplete manner. The winning ploy accrues to a native-born mini-fur magnate's Princeton graduate daughter and her fetid claque of social-influencer busybodies. When the boyfriend made like a gunrunning closet dyke at pains to adjust nightly feedings to a once per annum atrocity prank, then we knew we'd had just about enough. After I buried his Father in a hole the diameter of an analgesic toothpick and scraped his dyslexic adoptive Mother off the dining room floor, my nose ran like a two-bit carnal opera fanatic and my pet hound Trophie took to the place like rice on a fly. All the while I was keeping company with the likes of Dirty Joe and Icepick Lou, the ghostwriters of my upcoming memoir, to be published by Random House and scheduled for an early Fall 2021 release.
When I came to in a laundromat the size of a '50s bowling emporium, it was plain that the only viable alternative was to re-scale my wafer intake regime and lead a 'horse of a different color' to a vat of liquid by any other name. I was down to my last pair of socks and it looked like my appearance at the Stonefield High School fifty year reunion would be in some doubt. I knew if I booted up the Parker Towel Jet and made a good faith effort to seem less harmful than your average bond ghoul, then our one-size-fits-all approach stood an increasingly slight chance of doing the trick.
What made me decide to come clean was my selection as Pound Caffernet of the Year. No one will be held to account. To rip an ulterior fabric with the wrong end of a brick is our exit strategy of choice when hypoxied spandrels are in the mix. If my alienated cousin could see me now she'd have a fit. There's a medical name for what she has. The last time I tried to pronounce it, tooth decay was the inevitable result. A pony named Roger is the last organic being to justifiably win the trust of this very sad generation. Beyond that it's all dots and squibs, peners and ronads. You know the drill. Give it a break. My name squeaks Jesus. Now we can jocky for a position in digital marketing. The day is almost here. The pride you feel is practically infectious. Now we can relax. All is well. No it isn't.
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