Simple Theories

How you, O Little Puppies, have been affected by my financial advisers, I cannot tell, even the great steroid experiment Arnold Schwarzenegger would be baffled; but I dig that they almost made Poopy Pants shit beans--so persuasively did they speak; and yet they have hardly uttered a word of, like, whatever. But of the many crappy shits told by them, there was one which quite amazed me--it's like oh my gawd when they said that you should be upon your guard and not allow yourselves to be deceived by the force of my eloquence. To say this, when they were certain to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and proved myself to be anything but a great speaker, did indeed appear to Poopy Pants most shameless--unless by the force of eloquence they mean the force of , like, whatever; for if such is their meaning, I admit that I am totally stoked. But in how different a way from them! Well, as I was saying, they have scarcely spoken whatever at all; but from Poopy Pants you shall hear the wh...

The Inquisition resembles framed debate, with flowers transmuted into toads. Toads are all right, fictions with tongues. But we must remain cognizant that climate change and claptrap produce farms. Why is the big unknown. Benches of grey strokes produce futile farms. Fluency exercises create our future. We aren't tractors, we are men and women, perhaps a few lorn children, okay some dogs, cats, a dolphin or two, some wax figurines, a bit of lint, the point is, we create meaning just by standing by as time passes and then passes again. This is the signal moment, complete with commas. Semi-colons mark the moment when something included could be left out, straightway to the center of backing away. That's why we bully children. When not bullying children or implying immigrants or examining our inner lint, we have the scrumptious duty to appear focal. The farm must feed the billion openings that may say Yes to the right No . It's a program or problem, whatever Meani...

That place next to calling cards, it remains ideal for the remembrance of rivulets. Each sky in memory reacts to certain facts. Your life as a barometre. Today is an exclusive reference point, and you will drink coffee. When coffee is invented, everyone will dance. Today is National Beyoncė. Possible language blusters and fit clouds seem partial. The coffee flavour of calling cards strives for best rivulet. Indications refer to place names, which only appear at night. Our love for National Beyoncé points toward a western moon of running fever. Conditional cats still curl up, with politic calling cards. This is a nation of pants. There have not been such smooth jumpiness since the eminent spells of Ringo. Report charm to your superiours. Bruce Andrews has a tan. Meanwhile, the wainscotting seeks approval. Violins full of sestinas mock the barometre. The sun smells like parting gift. Luckily the calling cards remain sincere. They bond with feature coffee. The rectangular pa...