Now listen to me, before you take another toke on that pipe, I never acquiesced to this idea of a worricow lying in ponds distributing guanxi as a system of agribusiness, because the fate of the world should always derive from the mandate of the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony and certainly not because some watery scarecrow wanted to get into bed with you.
Oooohhh, look at you honey, getting the monk on just cos I haven't passed the joint yet, you'd think it was a status symbol, well I ain't passing it until you check out all the different names for hash babe, you got the bionic, the bomb, the puff, the blow, the black, the herb, the sensie, the cronic, the sweet jouissance, the shit, Ganja, split, reefa, the bad, the buddha, the home grown, the ill, the maui-maui, the coup de grace, pot, lethal turbo, tie, shake, skunk, stress, the whacky weed, the glaze, the boot, the criticism, Scooby Doo, the bob, the bogey, the back yard boogie, for real babe, now have a toke.
You consider yourself a worthy bon vivant of this technetronic age, a conneisseur of all things electronic, born in the midst of the blinding fulgor of rampant resourcefulness and innovation, and yet you still don't realise that all your personal trials and tribulations are due to the fact that, as always, the Problem Exists Between Chair And Keyboard.
That night, Pete went to bed not feeling very springe at all after slaving away at the stove all day on a turducken that was now, both literally and metaphorically, nothing but a smoking gun that had to be discreetly disposed of before the wife got home to discover he'd destroyed the last comestible turkey in the supermarket.
Right ladies and gentlemen, item number 4 today is this gorgeous gold Dickin Medal, awarded to Reggie the hedgehog for the courageous use of his spikes to avoid becoming the main ingredient of a drunken potluck in 1994, now what will ya give me, I’ve got a fifty dollar bid, now sixty, now sixty, will ya give me sixty, come on ladies, it’s worth fawning over, we’ve got a sixty dollar bid, now seventy, now seventy, will ya give me seventy, and it’s a seventy dollar bid, now eighty, now eighty, will ya give me eighty, and yes we have a bid, do I have any more bidders out there, this is the final offer, right so it’s going for eighty dollars, going, going, gone and it’s SOLD to the dear old battle-axe in the corner for eighty dollars!
I can't tell if you're already utterly vinous or simply shell-shocked by the sudden news of your sister's shotgun matrimony darling, but you really need to think about letting me re-apply your calliblephary before we go to the wedding or you will end up with a sempiternal reputation as an easy-going ho.
Okay, so in order to make this work, we’ll need you to teleport back to 1972, assume the role of the jilted lover of the millionaire vulgarian playboy Rontgen Fickleburger while somehow maintaining an intraordinary existence so you can get a hold of a blue box and make the calls that will set up the chain of events that lead us to the very paradox that got us into this loop in the first place - got that?
The final of the 2054 Pickleball World Cup was a game for the ages, featuring the unexpected match-up of two players who were the ultimate antithesis of each other, with the vulgarian gangrel Clatfart Maginty, renowned for his powerful scudding serve, face full of bling and formulaic yet deadly game strategies, fronting up against the heterodox Minecrafter Jorrobee Holoraby, who once more brought her sweeping back hand, surprising changes of pace and the welcome grace notes of her spontaneous twirling dance routines to the party.
"Good morrow and welcome, my dear hail-fellows," the Master Toileteer bellowed as he regaled the new recruits, "and remember that first and foremost the discreet and recondite collection of ordure is an ancient hierophanic profession without which the proud foundation of our noble society would crumble into those very sewers upon which it stands, so therefore your duty must be literally carried out with the utmost sense of sacred dignity that such profound responsibility entails."
"I'm on a mission of manumission from God", spoke the lurid calavera in haunting disembodied tones, it's jaws moving like chopsticks, "to remind you of your fleeting mortal breath and thus sing a song of salvation, for if you can discern the lyric behind these words you will hear a mentalese that will put you at eternal ease."
"I'm on a mission of manumission from God', spoke the lurid calavera in haunting disembodied tones, it's jaws moving like chopsticks, "to sing a song of salvation and thus remind you of your fleeting mortal breath, for if you can discern the lyric behind these words you will hear a mentalese that will put you at eternal ease."
"Look I understand that my titties might be getting you swole, Mr G-String 20", the buxom woman told the globally renowned hip-hop star, "but as your newly-appointed accountant I feel it is incumbent upon me to be a fingerpost and inform you that your finances are in a contemnible disarray and we really need to cut down on the size of your so-called 'girl-squad' posthaste if you are to have any chance of avoiding the wrath of your creditors."
Known by the sobriquet of the 'Gilded Glad Hand', infamous proctologist Dr Partley Johnson was considered by some to be an angel incarnate, capable of extracting the most intractable and painful 'clabbydoos' from one's nether regions with the deftest of touches, while others saw only a man engaged in an entrenched process of 'othering' - leaving a dark trail of unfortunates writhing in a hemorrhoidal hell.
When local proctologist Dr Partley Johnson was handed the gold watch and amaranth bouquet on the day of his retirement, there were many who rejoiced at the news, happy that someone who they considered to be a reckless rodomont would no longer be able to expound on all his dubious medical achievements as he prodnosed their nether regions in his dilapidated clinic.
Further details had begun to emerge of First Officer Goliath Arfencock's miraculous journey to Jupiter, some of them no doubt apocryphal such as the viral stories of the army of evil cherubs that had invaded the Bathysphere to instigate an all-in orgy before setting it on fire, while others cast aspersions on Arfencock's character, saying he was nothing more than an attention-seeking rodomont who must have been hit in the head by a stray cometesimal during one of his scheduled space-walks.
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