My credibility with the class was filipendulous, for the (self-proclaimed) smartest among the teens were certain that intelligence obviates the need for homework, leaving my policies nomothetic at best, cruel and unusual at worst, while those less academically robust would look at the assigned work and plotz from fear.
O'Mally was an upstanding lassie of virtue with intemerate ideals and a fine head on her shoulders; never lead astray by the whelming wooing of the local Don Juan, she had the cop on common sense to bark him off the property when he came a-sniffing - what a remarkable bitch!
Ben was the Don Juan of the group, ever chasing after the girl; Martin was the provocateur, running the campus protest groups; and Wyatt was simply antipathetic to any and all suggestions; yet the three were fast friends since high school, and once I saw them playing Call of Duty together, I was completely convinced they were a monoousian trio.
Be careful, for if you give the commander a small cumshaw he will let you promulgate your ideas during morning announcements, but after you explain how war is not anthropogenic and we are just pawns in the grand battle started by the Mighty Unicorns fighting the tyranny of the Aged Orcs, there will be hundreds of soldiers in peckled camouflage ready to have your head.
In the middle of the vacuous snowscape outside of town, the mountain peak was downright fastigiate, with long, sleek sides the best you’ve ever seen for taking a sled to ridiculous speeds, which is why I nobbled my way to the front of the line of kids, threatening to punch a kindergartener if he didn’t clear out of my way, giving my toy whistle as a cumshaw to a sixth grader for letting me through, until, at last, at last – woohoo!!!
Back from watching The Nutcracker, mom and dad hit the glogg with a force reserved for Christmas celebrations while the girls felt behooved to glissade across the hardwood floors in their holiday best in homage to the Sugar Plum Fairy, leaving only uncouth cousin Tom (was he switched at birth?) drinking his low class bullshot as the evening progressed.
Whiskers jumped deftly onto the plinth and proceeded to walk around the feet of Old George's statue as if he were a fiduciary checking up on the condition of each iron toe, and when he was satisfied he lay down for a kip in full sight of the townspeople walking by in their Sunday best, thinking that his apparent mansuetude would fool some gullible little girl into bringing him a saucer of cream.
The QQ webmaster, with his persnickety rules and orbicular eyes peering from their narrow little sockets, judges entries by a strong rubric to avoid the smallest breech of form, maintaining his manly, nay, kingly rule over his petty domain while distaff paranymphs are dispatched to relay orders to formerly hopeful contributors.
A lawyer and a sawyer walk into a bar and the lawyer says “You don't have any substantive arguments, you just cut things in half,” and the sawyer says, “You must be in the Land of Oz, I'm the gubernatorial candidate,” and the lawyer says “But that's my only line!”
My grandfather called me a flaneur, a pinwheel, just because at the age of 25 I still refused to winnow my life choices down to a single option; while his career was his lifelong roborant, for me the greatest chef-d’oeuvre is a life full of experiment and change.
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