Now look here, ye limey scallywag, ye see that fella over there dressed cap-a-pie in tights and feathers with his head down all omphaloskepsis like, well that ain't none other than the Duke of Cambridge hisself, plying his trade as the King's Jester with a precipitancy born of desperation, so I'd show a bit more respect if I were you.
Júlio walked warily into the room, his brim pulled way down low, but it wasn’t omphaloskepsis so much as intense concentration on the job at hand; with a well-practiced muliebrity he sashayed his way through the chandelier shards until the chanchada director cried: “Cut!”
Without putting too fine a point on it, it was a moment of sublime homophily, of two minds thinking as one, when, raising our voices in feisty unison the unheralded mondegreen slipped out in perfect synchronicity: “suddenly someone is bare and it turns out, the girl with colitis goes by.”
If one were to demand my opinion on the matter it would be incumbent upon me to say that the person in question is a veritable kaiju, rampaging through the arts with no regard for the vox populi whatsoever, and yet, conversely, that do-all has somehow garnered the support of the bourgeoisie.
Now, there are many who label me as an egregiously profligate rakehell, but you must keep in mind that it is only due to my fortuitous discovery of the multi-billion dollar carbonado deposits on the moon (absit omen!) that we can now plunder the rest of the solar system.
"Oh my dear throttlebotoms, we are at the end of an age, living in a land of incessant histrionics and personalia that sets in, shat on by Microsoft, shovelled up by Apple, and here we are, we three; perhaps the last island of beauty... sequestered from the world."
My name is Theodore Throttlebottom the Third, a minion in the service of Her Majesty Queen Espaglacini, and I am burdened with the task of vamping up entertaining diversions during our late afternoon passeggiata.
"Look, I know that the vicissitudes of life strike us all Hreidar,” Moldof gnarred as she sliced the air with her Saxon sickle, “but you’ll be digging your own burial mound if you insist on wearing such flimsy toggery into battle.”
Even in such bucolic farmland settings, it was nevertheless incumbent upon me to scream blue murder when my friend, with his usual deficiency of savoir-faire, imputed that opening the gate was the only way to relieve the sexually agitated bull.
I think you’ll find that even the most astute stasiology would provide no insights into the likely result of the upcoming election, for those in the upper echelons know only too well how to creative effective smoke screens with their well-practised galimatias while at the same time revealing their true intent to the chosen few via backdoor steganography.
Hi there, I just wanted to suggest a minor edit to my original sentence:
“Right then,” the priest whispered feverishly as he sheathed the wooden cross within the folds of his clerical raiment, “I’ll go and titivate before delivering the Sunday sermon while you continue applying the parge to these hallowed tomb walls and remember - make absolutely certain there’s no way it can escape once you’re finished.”
“Right then,” said the priest as he donned his clerical raiment, “I’ll go and titivate before delivering the Sunday sermon while you continue applying the parge to these hallowed tomb walls and remember - make absolutely certain there’s no way it can escape once you’re finished.”
'Tis the season for shoe-leather journalism, walking the walk to talk the talk of a festival in flux, where the raiments of trick or treat no longer hold sway and the only way to maintain credibility is to osculate an antagonistic apparition live on CNN.
“Before you sit down, I would like you to ruminate on this first,” the chiromancer explained patiently, “and that is that the divination of lines is a long process that must be conducted ab initio from the very first contact until a full psychic reading can be gleaned and not within 5 minutes of the client’s arrival, which is what a lot of you nudniks seem to believe.”
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