v – The Imitation of a Real Kitsch.

Blowzier dybbuks, that ransacked the tabernacle moodlessly, needed no mundane vintage floozy to insist on using prime truth whitener. AA was fortuitously pivotal in diverting live wires away from Thebes’ food chain scene.

          As shoes were found mustered at the death chant and softball/picnic schtick meet at Florida, one precipice of safaris had hugged conniption proof theater hinges, fleeing specious glazes from thespians, outlasted All–Stars, and soon short–lipped useless inversions.

*        *        *

          The steamy swarm surfaced first, too proud to insist on what was arguably their amino — so res ipsa loquitur, Fiona, Macy, and Cat Mon (not as elated as his ex) forgot about the Alamo (ne). They had stown–pickled nectar and raw travesties in a silty foil infomercial den; messkits, whelmed with fava beans, between Why–A–Vacuous–Sun and Spoonsinsea, inane oases midst malodorous ostracizers. Hesiod, pursuant to jousting off Baal’am, included a mausoleum of major minnesingers, fountless try–outs from earlier magi.

          Then a tight wedgie herniated res ipsa loquitur, enough perhaps to excuse him from bursting hastily out at the sing–along, “no two old has–been bo’suns were as sulky as we,“ when an active four–footed fritter (Macy’s bane) elapsed into a slob of fitness. “That was a nearly quite grenadine B&B loofah, weeds haggardly ridding us elves of the usual arraigned witches, you know,“ and Fiona connoted, in mulched theme banter, “we must leave in two hours. Is it that we would be easy?“

          “Do tell, oh four–flushing pals.“ Just the trays of raw eel gagged Theda’s bete noir, Io, a fulsomely devious smokestack Gipper had picked up to imbue non–thin triage physicians with crate bitties. “Tan taco pips treated us to an altered consciousness,“ res ipsa loquitur, paving in hopeless fiscal cat snores, broke in. “Let’s trap a tofu turf–toe fume, governor.“

          Calculating about Huguenots, he fussed off to Baluchistan, “they won’t plug enough hostels. I’ve got fleas, if it please your worship,“ and threw the jingle for a thumbnail, and then before you knew it, a thing panned their zenith, weirdly hedged with sheep wandering at large in the hale suede, and woebegone at Elysian discus issues!

          Their ex–grope was lard–butted in practice, though inured to homespun–clad wolf proms where each rib flip revealed prone naysayer latch wiseacres (NLW) thronging by Theda’s mouse–proof annual pledge doily. “Beats the hell out of me,“ she countered, “how you incensed res ipsa loquitur to leap the cheesy moon wave for this dune, unless they were so laxly blended.“

*        *        *

          Now, harping in another half–life, an Anzac pipe fitter chanted up enough pearls, worth more than Pill Hill and its sphere of terror. Fiona too looked okay, hardy and exothermic, liable to cheapen clear PVC. Macy thought the blue depraver nearly expired, and in disbelief leered more at King Rembrandt’s Whig (than was politically correct).

          Arguably, Cat Mon brought up a rat in his house, wroth if eclectic there, intently miming his kibbles. A prairie glow potently whirled merry regiment bees, but before they primed, a sunburst hit. They nudged a mane draining the bilge knee by knee, and sank into the vapid smells of the jangle.

          Hours in vain wasted not, an oasis upchucked on Io. Macy and Fiona goosed their speedy luau, using tree–fort bagatelles. “Why, heel there, doofus,“ they said on falling over cowslips hiding in an ethereal ying wake, and Cat Mon’s sunbeam was almost lost when Pele decreed a drab candelabra aphelion.Their worst fear was a crash mensa CPA, who moussed Ra’s trick knee while implying drab orange houris, who stepped in tacos, were dilatory.

          Cat Mon skittled behind them, but the pale sister successfully lodged unusually lurid writs of old felt, and res ipsa loquitur, certain that he had put out fresh iced Fanta drinks, fussed as their meshuga coda dance, smeared as a totally heavy turnip in wiser milieus, got a bravo debut, whereas, harping shrilly at tepid spring peepers now sloshing before the waterslide, Fiona’s retinues piped her over and blustered that she’d tried to plunge sullen clowns into inkwells.

*        *        *

          Nods, tumbling binkies, the groggy fellows trod, aargh, a worst case untenet joined an aha flash bidet, crocheting dour ominous haiku: “thistles, I sat down as if 11 circle–sided loud Opry elves increased in girth for frigid hosts: pronto, blithe feelers whistled archly boomtown (ill goblins fain minted his pub with stark pride) hits fussed in truth. Gotcha!” A wood–ilk horror wand trimmed other dormant worlds down!

          “Get me a dingy futon formula,” hooted a nice video source chatelaine! At the height of degrading ever–heftier cygnets, his multi–dense surf dreams fell on a negotiable teen effigy, staggering in remorsefully svelte moon–sized disco viewfinders.

          Aware these rated a gong in principle, res ipsa loquitur, conch shell in hand, tweaked a conscious Greco–mouse who loomed between dead ants and ditched a last toast: a gedanke rondeau bogus lad kept waiting. Pegged to a hemostat, he shaped rye devils, unscreened until there a lithe inky tench nattered, lo, a fake shhh slams rank locusts: whereupon illicit reports of thy plutonium–waved rhythm nearly capsized while Macy shook a wet anteater and dashed for the lamppost daintily.

          Sullenly he went, “um, had Fiona’s world beescape Tivoli quickly clenched feng shui Celtic stencils?” He leapt a kettle and gestured, “what stingy bribes;” then bleak pumas roared from Sheol, “scram diaper face!” “Isn’t a deed,” Macy asked, “due when a hot goof train docks akimbo?” res ipsa loquitur hooked shads; his gusto forthwith was disimpious.

Circa January 2009.

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