On the door of the headquarters of Middlething, the ceorl section of the neo-Old-Norse community Gormland, was a birchbark sheet with the following anapest scratched on it: "If you choose, as you can, to administer mojo,/ Or rather dispense, like the soap branded Gojo,/ Don't try to attempt it on some fiery hellion/ For magic plus mischief may equal rebellion!"
Laurence Pi, whom new-music nerds had dubbed a vates of aleatoric composition, caused a big brouhaha when he announced, on as many radio stations as he could, the idea for his new project: pieces whose construction was dictated by the flapping of different countries' flags, which he planned to perform for the leaders of these countries; although nobody questioned the quality of the work, many considered it disrespectful to the nations' emblems.
Another possible solution:
Neil gophered through the tome, trying to find some inside baseball topic to have a lively brouhaha about; his hopes, however, were decimated when Bernard showed up and asked him about the kids.
There's nothing inside baseball about what created that utter brouhaha that broke up the party last night; the fact of the matter is that Edwin has been training a bunch of 4- and 5-year-olds to follow him wherever he goes, trying to be completely unnoticed, and whenever a large group of people are concentrated in a small area the kids just gopher through the sea of legs they look up at, tripping as many people as they can and decimating the fun (at least for everyone but them and Edwin!).
Lil' Big Shorty summoned his saloonmates with two rapid fillips and a cry of "Time to paint the town red!", not realizing that the force majeure of liquor had resulted in most of the crowd he was addressing being unable to do anything but flounder.
I frequently cachinnate when I observe penguins or drunk people porpoising, and when someone with poor tooth-to-tooth occlusion grimaces; however, when my boss (who often gets drunk and wavers, has bad teeth, and grimaces a lot) tries to levant at payday, this is far from a laughing matter.
It was a nice vernal day in the woods by the reservoir- cicadas were bombilating, newts crawfishing out of being predated by bream, parulas lisping and towhees burring- when it transpired to Kyle that the reason he had the time to go to the woods in the first place was his lack of friends, and that he had no friends because he both spoke and thought in crosswordese.
Frank DeVontz always wanted to make visitors to his house feel at first overawed and then comfortable; he made an archaic-looking stone lazy Susan, set about with quoins, to keep things demulcent.
I've become a doubting Thomas about floor safety ever since I decamped from the sterile milieu of a family get-together and fell in an oubliette whose door opened in.
"The texture of this music is thick and coarse like kasha", Mat whispered surdly to me as we watched and listened to the folk/funk/polka/punk band Giant Hyrax on its bandbox stage by the Delaware River; but I felt that asking him exactly what he meant would just peg me as a nosy parker.
Being an insatiable peeping Tom may lead to being a very specific one: one who pays attention to certain behaviors that others may consider heinous (at least under circumstances in which they are not necessary, such as the presence of a nearby restroom); this situation is hardly quelled when the encountering of these behaviors gets to be craved and one wonders how long it will be before all restrooms will be gone and we will have rear-end times, if you will, in which the behaviors are necessary for a kind of scatological eschatology.
I know not what nepenthe I partook of last night, but it made me so non-percipient that when I woke up this morning I realized I had attorned all my ungulates to a total stranger; Nick, my donkey, and Duppy and Nuggle, my beloved pet duikers, were all sold and I had no recollection of doing so!
Tim Hargreaves' neo-Wiccan band from Brooklyn, though quite good, lacked the distinctive "reverse swing" lilt heard at actual covensteads; this was probably because the band members did not associate with many actual Wiccans, as they found it hard to look past the indissoluble association of paganism with some sort of mens rea.
The canny brickmaker, unable to bend his knees due to a popliteal injury, suborned a co-worker to steal the pile of bricks marked "Finished", in order to create stilts for his kiln so he didn't have to squat (which he couldn't) to open the low door for the raw clay's ingress.
All these upper-class hipsters are so equivocal; they raise a malapert middle finger to the culture and society they came from, yet they don't seem to think about what to replace that society with, as they fail to see that the demimonde is a real lollapalooza!
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