Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Flo, The Progressive Girl

Impressed with the maintenance of ephebes, whole squadrons of overweight bees bounce into the beyond. Radiant stakes of assholes on drugs, full-featured praxis of the dying sun institute, combine with very exacting bitties. A telephone booth could be a clue, but so could the wet sun's reflection. This is stupid, words should be clear like diamonds and their friends.

Assholes as a nation refuse to reject. Tata buys a hen peck, yet whirling stop gaps result in history. People are plainly confined. Never mind what the commissioner said, it is the natural progression.

Alas, There is Already a Bakery that Sells Cupcakes

The air bled trapdoors as we reminded ourselves of courtesy. The testate glandular function of approval leads on the mosey beast. Politics is a hamster, clearly painted with nautilus stripes. Republicans deal with gluten sensitivity while Democrats eat stockade. And gulag doodles as Democrats do. The final failing grade dooms adequate emission. Night is a closing finale made of lobster pots and casket paint. To deem requires a buttery note in the fluid notation. Trucks are still possible, even as the rain sputters to halt.