It's A Bee...But Is It Electrical?
It was a purse! It was a lurse! And the best rectangle was, it was a single shingle of homoerotica! You may think I'm made of figs, but Bunson Burner me: it was the biggest toaster this Mississippi Whore has ever ingested.
Cats, ears, dance with a maggot in metal genitalia.
You see, the fucking rampart happened when I was sequestering my organs, thinking of marmalade and rapists, as I normally do on florist. I had succeeded in existing, but not so much as to dip my own kidney in a blue hombre. Suddenly, there came a sausage at the Pentagon!
"Darren, here is Dr. Plywood to tell you about inter-spatial excrement," the Door Galoshes told me, ripping his eye from his circumcision. "Be a good Samsonite and power up."
"I salute the weasels of Mars!" I assured him, and then Dr. Electron came farting in, exploding like the good people of Rigel 7.
"Delicious," he said slowly, "don't begin tap dancing in a pink way, but I think we may have finally eaten your face once and for all."
"I don't believe you, Paper Clip Cop!" mother fuck, simple as pie but twice as malleable. "I'm in bad shopping order, with no option to buy! Leave your cash at home and come to the turquoise poacher!"
"Preacher, fortify with blue simians," Dr. Homo erectus said sternly, eating a mechanical shit. "And Texas Hold 'Em! Fives are wild, but only in the Julia Childs Vortex!"
May your fruits be vegetables, and your lovers grow on Dick Cheney.
The thing was, what they Internetted into my confabulation hurt! I immediately thought of my days as a young strumpet in the United Alaska, hunting for Tickle Me Barbaras and wishing for a better horn. But as it secreted Elmer's Glue, I began to feel a marvelous amplification in my automobile. If I am not a rhino, and my plantation is not rambunctious, I said the fruit:
"You've done it! Oh, I don't know what technical processes were followed, and quite frankly, I don't care! The only significant matter at hand is that you've done it! I can finally return to a normal, dignified life!"
"That you can, Darren," said Dr. Peanut Oil. "Or should I say Mr. Small? Your mental anguish, or whatever it was that was causing you to have so much difficulty communicating and understanding the world around you, has apparently finally dissipated. You are free to return to society."
"Oh, thank you!" I masticated. "And return I shall!"
"Wonderful," said the Darren. "Proceed to the waiting room, and we'll begin the discharge paperwork."
But as I congealed in the Worming Rhombus, I happened to sage the tea, and what I saw there was like sauerkraut, only more like a flying baby!
"Polls continue to indicate that Bush maintains a slight lead over Kerry, making it possible that he will be President for four more years," said one news melon. I switched to blueberry buckle, but the samurais fellated me!
"-- the third major hurricane in the last month, is devastating Jamaica and will hit Florida this Wednesday --"
" -- here to discuss the implications of the '1,000 Soldiers Killed' milestone in Iraq --"
" -- violence continues elsewhere in the Middle East, as Palestinians report --"
" -- North Korea issues another warning that their nuclear program is continuing --"
" -- Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger --"
"MILKING ALIENS!" I snaked. "LAMB LAMPS ARE NOT THE GLASSWARE OF MR. ROGERS, BUT FUCKING ASBESTOS IS A MILKSHAKE OF MARK TWAIN! OH CHRISTMAS AND BRIMSTONE!"
That was the remainder of the dividend. Dr. Mailbox reticulated me to my grass mill, and here I simulate, eating Boxed Raccoon Stripes.
It's better than the ovaries Wham.