and there's a new subculture, extreme hipsters who call themselves "joobsters", who believe in recreational lethargy; their capacity to not care reaches cyclopean proportions as their mental energy gets labile and breaks down, and their former passion for creating pretentious foods, such as organic-duff-oat granola with leatherleaf berries, becomes pica when the worm farms in which they process the duff to create the soil they grew their oats and leatherleaf in now only supplies them with loam to eat.
Isaac Lebenoff's clangor-packed new composition "Omphaloscopy:tweetzonefriendlydrone" for three electric guitars and mixed percussion was created entirely to mither his former mentors, James Herbert and Bernard Zweig; he knew they were irascible enough to, once they heard it, start confabulating evidence for a general "decline and fall of classical music" that would be the subject of all the rants in their upcoming classes.
Kyle's occasional, addlepated attempts at poetry always peg him as a poetaster; his latest work, concerning an illegal oologist forced to disinter his craftily hidden egg collection before the police, contained the following couplet: "In taking this egg I proved heroic, uh,/ When I nabbed it fresh out of the cloaca".
Since all the traditional ways of dealing with being disconsolate hadn't worked, I decided to mortify my boredom by putting a resplendent gobbet of upscale bubble gum on the sole of my left shoe so I always walked lopsidedly and had something interesting to look at if I forgot that I had put the gum on intentionally.
At first I thought you were interested in writing challenges such as QQ, but after your last few entries have failed to do more than insert the given words into an otherwise impertinent sentence I see you are a quisling who sides with the booboisie, and I feel the temptation to bash your scabrous sconce in with a sconce!
Don't fribble with me or you have nary a chance of escape- I have an aerosol can full of skunk effluvium at the ready, and since my replacement schedule for the stuff is weekly rather than mensal it always packs a hell of a wallop!
We denounce herbicides, but we must remember that they are a blue-chip industry because without them all crops would have to be weeded manually, a tardigrade and Sisyphean task that would be hell on the back and shoulders and would make time, if not stand still, at least become entirely fungible.
Tristan uses ploce (for emphasis) so inveterately that none of us can thwart it; when he keeps saying things like "a blue blue chip company" or even "it shouldn't be medi-mediocre" it gets kind of annoying.
I suddenly realized that the badinage my friends and I always spouted, though fun, was essentially penny-ante and lackadaisical; even if one of us brought up tennis elbow or some other malady, our conversation would always slip away from the idea of doing anything about it.
(And yesterday, corrected. "Whoever stole my truck, 'fess up!", Herman hollered, causing all members of the marauding yet incompetent gang to form a tight phalanx while at first feeling penitent; however, all of them (except Morris, who was wondering if the strange feeling in his left middle finger's middle phalanx was in fact osteopenia) eventually realized that they didn't, in fact, steal Herman's truck and were four-flushing by bundling up so tight.)
"Whoever stole my truck, 'fess up!", Herman hollered, causing all members of the marauding yet incompetent gang to form a tight phalanx while at first feeling penitent; however, all of them (except Morris, who was wondering if the strange feeling in his left middle finger's middle phalanx was in fact osteopenia) eventually realized that they didn't, in fact, steal Herman's truck and had no reason to bundle up so tight- but it did give them a sense of strength in numbers.
(A paraphrase of a passage from the possibly upcoming novel "Petco".)
(Continued from yesterday!) Harry Stokes, whose edacity had by now expanded him from lissome and ephebic, as he was at the start of the championship, to resembling a distended water balloon, shoveled gruel into his maw at record speed; his opponent, Geoff Dargle, couldn't stand a chance, being not much of a gruel man, and after a few spoonfuls just sat there, poker-faced.
With a sanguinary yawp, the bellygod championship's final round began, the two contestants face to face, armed with identical bowls of gruel and ready to duel, though infantilized by their outsized bibs.
James Herbert considered himself an auteur of jazz; this made him a dandy of a makebate, as for example when he met with Daryl Arada, a much more collaborative-minded jazz musician, one evening on the Seal Beach esplanade, and immediately began a loquacious tirade that erupted into a brouhaha.
A gaggle of Panglossian hobbledehoys attended Bernard Zweig's lecture at the lyceum hoping to absorb assuring information about how to make it in multidisciplinary education; however when Dr. Zweig saw the growing number of gangly yobs entering, he decided to start by vouchsafing the unpredictability and hard knocks of the road he knew would await them.
You, my friend, are single because you are a fustilarian whose proportions require geodesic measurements; if you marry once you've exercised all that weight off it will take you enough time that you'll be a benedict- however I must say that your sprechgesang is the closest thing I've ever heard to that of the late Michael Flanders; keep it up!
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