Pococurante as always, John only looked up from his book for a cursory glom at the woman exiting the pool, the momentary diplopia of his fleeting glance causing her maillot to appear as a strange sort of side-by-side bikini
“Filiopietistic honor be damned!” though Jeffrey as he threw himself with abbandon into his life-long desire to acculture himself to the world of the wastrels, secretly relishing the fact that propinquity with the members of the slacker community would allow him to forgo some of the customs of the “polite society” in which he was brought up.
Joseph’s campaign to renumber the days of the month to start with the zeroth (the only way that made sense to his programmer’s brain) had him swimming against the current of mainstream thought processes like some anadromous parent-to-be looking for a place to spawn; the result of this futile effort always seemed to be the appearance of a throbbing, solferino-colored vein on his temple followed soon thereafter by his threatening to blow the world to smithereens.
The imago of her father, who had died before Jacqueline reached the age of seven, snaked itself around every aspect of her adult life, much like a uraeus coiled at the base of a pharaoh’s crown, comforting her as the sight of a caravansary quells the apprehension of a weary nomad; in deifying him in this way she made it all but impossible for anyone to be worthy of her love and was thus still a lonely spinster at seventy-three.
The occasion of the jubilee meant that the Archduke would be obliged to forgo his usual custom of drygulching his enemies and be more subtile, utilizing auxiliary manpower in the execution both of his plans and of his foes.
Frances lay on the ground stunned, having rather ungracefully executed a faceplant off her bicycle (a faux bilocation which instantaneously transposed from her perch atop its saddle to the ditch alongside the road); the small crowd of onlookers seemed prone to clitical exclaim: “That‘ll leave a mark” and “What’dya think you’re doing?” were discernable amid the clamor.
The blurry photo showed the vague outline of a walrus’ shadow, cast faintly onto its carceral surroundings, in which torture devices galore—stuffing pullers, faux fur razors, and pomeranians—could be seen more clearly; when R.’s eye caught sight of a bit of fluff near the edge of the frame, though, his wailing orison for the safe return of his beloved could be heard throughout the land.
Sir Joseph’s utter lack of philogyny was never so apparent as in the contumely he oftentimes evinced at the servant wenches’ rebuking of his lecherous advances; they knew full well that his ostentatious clothing and jewelry were merely Barmecidal, his family’s wealth having long since been squandered as a result of his poor judgement and uneven temper, and they had nothing material to gain from succumbing to his grubby pawing.
Definitely no brainiac, Peter's oleaginous complexion, foul breath, and eyeballs that seemed to move within his skull like the orbs of a clockwork orrery, led most men to question how he had ever landed a sinecure as cushy and prominent as the ambassadorship to France; until, that is, they were informed of his unfortunate (from his family's point of view, at least) parentage.
It took us a while to realize Peter's jactitation for what it was--his claim to have been married to the famous actress, whose luscious lips peppered the fantasies of many a thirteen-year-old boy, seemed plausible due to both her well-documented egalitarian philosophy (he was certainly not her peer by any scale) and his phlegmatic nature (one easily imagined him insensible to the attention of the paparazzi who continuously flocked around her).
The gravamen that Jorge had with his ex-fiancée, Fiona, was not her clandestine tippling nor her habit of windmilling her arms as she walked, but the fact that she agonized over the most mundane of choices, assuming the worst about all possible outcomes; for instance, her treating such simple queries as whether to dine indoors or al fresco as one would a Morton's fork, when in reality, they might be sporks at best.
Hardly a wastrel, Joseph's alacrity in the face of the almost-Sisyphean challenge of rendering the cortical layer of bamboo fibers suitable for making into yarn perplexed his boyfriend, who much preferred the simple shearing of his pet alpacas.
A hawthorn wreath encircling His head, the figure of the dying Christ hung limply from the crudely shaped bronze crucifix, its highly polished and exquisitely carved rosewood contrasting with the rough metal; its creator, replete with pygmalionism, gazed lovingly at his work, such that onlookers half expected a bolt to shoot down from the empyrean heights to penalize him for the sin of idolatry.
The antsy poltergeist looked around for a suitable weapon to use, its need to slake its ruthless thirst for mayhem having reached its apex; thus began what would later be dubbed "The Odd and Mysterious Case of the Projectile Barbie® Dolls."
"Armageddon married in the morning," crooned the impish chorus as the bride, a Demon of the First Order, strode down the aisle, passing a phantasmagoria of ill-wishers of varying levels of opacity and sliminess--Bezelqar, a young demon of questionable lineage had opportunely requested her claw in marriage after her previous betrothed managed to blow himself to smithereens upon accepting delivery of a mysterious package that turned out to be a daintily decoupaged petard.
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