Deliverance is a canticle made of pants and dresses, assayers now say. We float in impressive popping sounds as racism flowers for tremendous Glenn Beck. It’s his birthday: he’s now yesterday underwater, with sweaty aroma. Nota bene: he’s also a romantic puddle. Meanwhile, this horrible poet woman, partly training further dog sleds of Republican what, she says she rhymes with any detergent undertaking. Where’s the money, bitch? The better types of racism show a forthright quality vis-à-vis Glenn Beck’s Olympian asshole. Might be the appropriate synod, mutter the long end of nothing special. Language needs some looming, scant, and collective, not the dray horse expanse of our down time. We have been privy to potholes, walking down the long vocal damage of something versus something multiplied by stupid makes my ghost.
Pants are universal.