I cannot understand my cousin Ewan's fascination with Gaelic football, that watered down hibernian cousin of proper Aussie Rules -- I'd rather have fillings put in the palatal surface of every tooth while sitting under a partutient kangaroo than watch a game played without the real smashmouth attitude it deserves!
What finally made me decide to get sober was a bacchanal to end all bachannals -- a seriocomic, weekend-long binge that left me in a state of utter agita, unsure whether the furry thing I'd just eaten was meatloaf that had been sitting out too long or catloaf that had failed to move fast enough.
I can hardly stand the stylist's inane chatter, bombinating on about how she could cutify me right up if only I'd let her decorticate this and exfoliate that, interspersed with thetic declarations about the "in" looks this season; next time I'm cutting my own hair like usual, wedding or no wedding.
Having already lost his left hallux to frostbite, Captain Pochard was determined not to adhibit futher disaster by making a festinate decision on the best sailing route from Europe to Mauritius; so he sailed for Gibraltar, postponing for as long as possible the choice of the Suez Canal and Somali pirates or the Cape of Good Hope and austral storms.
Your pitful attempts at punctuation leave me cold -- you can palter and pander with your em dashes and emoticons all you like, but I will remain exanimate; no mere ampersand can ameliorate my ennui -- and what do you think you’re doing with that interrobang‽
The ayatollah's plumply avuncular, even cuddly, appearance contrasted with his rectilinear moral system, and particularly with his habit of plumply issuing fatwas against anyone he disapproved of without the least rigmorole or concern about raining on anyone's parade.
Kids these days have no sense for the fine art of haggling -- it seems like almost every day I'm confronted by another hobbledehoy with no appreciation of the value of premium boscage who thinks a flippant low-ball offer will get him a cheap Christmas tree.
I've said again and again that passion is a requirement for this job, that we need to see the fires of Hades burning in a candidate, and we've all agreed that Ms. Donahue's enthusiasm was tepid at best; so, her ambrosial perfume nonwithstanding, I'm afraid I must countermand your decision and rescind her offer.
Mayhap Calvin was lucky to escape with just a bruise from a hurled shoe and ears ringing with calls of "raca" when he presented a paper at a convention of Biblical scholars claiming that a little subaudition had led him to conclude that Jesus had spent much of his life tight as a tick after learning to turn water into wine.
True, my third wife had her good points: her cooking was delightful, and I suppose her face had its own homespun charm; but when synchronicity struck and I ran into my foxy neighbor on the street just as I was trying to remember her phone number, I said toodeloo to my marriage without a soupçon of regret.
Uncle Larry shows no signs of understanding our not-so-subtile suggestions that he should take it easy on the buffet -- I think the only way the rest of the guests at the Jubilee will get any food is if we call in the auxiliary assassin squad and drygulch him while nobody's looking.
I've been listening to shortwave radio in the night when I can't sleep for years, and over the last few weeks I've been hearing sferics distort my reception in short bursts that repeat at such regular intervals that I'm convinced they're caused by some artificial source rather than natural lightning; but my attempt to report this to the authorities is not off to an auspicious start: I've found an alphabet soup of government agencies and quangos, and bureaucracy run amok, but nobody interested in hearing about my discovery.
Mr. Kupeck's stress levels were running high already with the thought of El Niño-induced storm surges wreaking havoc on his new ocean front villa, and the unexpected appearance in the sanctum of his pool house of some dirty guttersnipe demanding $5000 as indemnity against "something unfortunate" happening to his beloved schnauzer did little to palliate his anxiety.
In spite of great critical acclaim, Raúl insists that his art is uninteresting because every single sculpture he has ever made is an esemplastic product of the same three early memories: the bilious color of the paint in his first bedroom, the sylvan tranquility of the thicket in which he spent much of a day lost as a three year old, and a peculiar voice (which he later decided was the taisch of his great-uncle Horace) that awakened him in the wee hours the night he discovered he could open his window by himself.
I used to consider myself the biggest Hendrix fan in California, so I got an Annie Oakley for the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967, I couldn't wait to see my idol, the Raj of Rock, peform "Purple Haze" live and went around town singing "'scuse me while I kiss this guy" for weeks; and even though I was totally mortified when a teller at the bank informed me contemptuously that this was a mondegreen and not the real lyric, it all worked out in the end since Hendrix really did sing the song my way on stage.
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