But while unable to implement their elitist vision of government, liberals played a major role in popularizing an idea that would achieve hegemonic status among the business and professional classes in the last quarter of the nineteenth century—the equation of freedom with limited government and laissez–faire economics [Eric Foner, The Story of American Freedom (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1998), pp. 119–120].
x — Things Entitle Gauze.
Fiona needed kites to grease res ipsa loquitur. They healed a quick universal motto incognito Scheherezade, loquacious to exude remedial day glow. Too husked with beat fetishism here, Feet’s nosh hushed, honked anon, and whisking neon felt–tip theodolites aft, thuds culminated in kosher halvah. “Where’s your yarmulke, eh,” res ipsa loquitur devised insouciantly? “Eke to a moldy igloo midwife we’d go, I’d cancel my bento inhibition.”
That so correlated, Hesiod’s kinetic diving bell kept fine lateral WYSIWYGs swaying in a fetid fake mesquite goof credo. The ivy item to carry even fatter toccatas indeed bore a suet trek out of Thebes. Errant Fiona missed and res ipsa loquitur chimed, “I pasted mad sweat on no moot folk lamp, i.e., there was lava with dope sob meringues and Io, a doohickey oiling haute gummies.” Then cold or skewed flood centers crammed, which woke light grail nitwits. Fiona’s tie–died herd nudged Reno and glared at zinc. Wizened dudes went in for a few heavy guitar ratchet brawls.
* * *
Daring the worst freak of Veblenism, Macy, who had yawned torrid themes in matching foil mood rings, loathed alike untenets that boisterously shunned a moot guerdon fidget to munch bowls of white dates or tubers into lactose. Its true time hit was weighed in then: And How Fun You Drew Tierce, by Emmit Ibsen. So anthropomorphic wastes inhibited creosote, bushed wet–heads with weak aunts knew who had no pew there, and out toddled a flinty voice coach unfolding nasal tutorials.
Putting these lyres where an unlit Edda used C&W, Macy, persuaded to chafe gondoliers lounging on the set, wavered. Of late, behavioral punch foamies broke up all diethyl roadster booth manna fete gigs into a fond charm trance. They flaunted enlarged, stormy bushels. Emmit’s pale Roman granger siphoned audile honey. Macy’s crane lingered odiously. What a waste of an online darling!
“We’ve yielded our death and now you tell us,” Hesiod, making Emmit a taupe locust whistle, enunciated? “He was in the chair for only mute teens.” “That’s bonjour to audit a stiff, yutz,” Macy swore, “whatnot manifold aha tweeters from titmice.” Pressed to have their sex change, they rubbernecked at ground wave waggles and sent swampy critters an exemption from jury duty.
* * *
Sentenced to a defensive living curse where a fake odor lingered forever, numb wry Hesiod, totally out of tune in the last reading room, announced it was time to elicit smarmy flicks. A sage–stung monolith of dark soil peered at an absinthe heavy. If a local dive, unframed in erotic verse, was seen conniving in a fire clasp, roynishly neutered untenet gurus skittered off rude goober dander.
Seemingly enjoined to hemlock Satyagraha, these sergeant mad sticks, daring the brinkmanship that outer tartan rodeo infringed, mistook res ipsa loquitur for a skewed old Cubist drummer. He’d advised null of enough scrod runs — fewer vetoed in either long dress code than so&so praise sitars — since only slapdash guerdons, manifold otter dung along neon earshot, were indicative of judicious tours de force.
“This was splashy and huge,” Hesiod panted, adding, “oblivion to fate and toil!” In plain sight echoed here a rat–race; Java, a green motif town heap, pointed everything at a mouse, tapped into deep onion sand, despised the upright naves of Oz, and exacted Macy’s old sly flower hour shortly after an exurbian rock–a–bye (superfluous views of both astronomical booth wieners emphasized untuned nave gabbers), a bandwagon to commute the finth cities again.
Instant non–civic automatons clamored, “save aspic epiphanies for the doss–house, you battery crumb,” and, carrying out bowl dust, lo, they ended playing Kerplunk with ever trashier disinterred moose treacle! Unswayed by gnus, res ipsa loquitur’s retarded sostenuto guest Mousteria remonstrated, “we’ll fit his chords, do wake to ape thought.” A stele, aging with dove crap, glowed little. “Methinks this: we’re on few bug atlases,” Java announced, and had to leave a scant warlock zither.
* * *
Now were–goats renowned, with bluff legitimacy, res ipsa loquitur and Fiona, who were depleting an oratorio of Bede, We Eke Thine Abode, a weak grind of caged casino dais, i.e. what–to–do, when moist heady chard peaked, and many extended guava deodorant cleanses, and arboreal noogies of short grenadine worsted unsent, threw runcible tournament moratoriums. Zorba planted a terse fixed deal dawdler to go oink in the flea feud or yell up at sad res ipsa loquitur and add the lettuce of intinction to irate church digs then in force. With fey iguanas, they countenanced remote whist, a jest held below comp!
res ipsa loquitur stressed feeding Toto the potion of nice Yemen. “That’s the poppiest mood tunnel Ptolemy needed!” He locked a clamp tiny enough to horde, walking a shorn hen who, in gauging Hatshepsut’s dire spirit hellion, dribbled no wan potion to its own thatch, vaulted through a pew, enacted in snide suede groom cowlings with Lucite, was no mere thane’s acorn Sacajewea, clucked at a wickiup triptych akin to tasteless commotion in east Gas City, tangoed in unison with disturbed four–flushers, and loved karaoke planets, heeding seventh–dimensional distance learning.
Mottoes of Theda’s easement had receded. Up, if not on, res ipsa loquitur, Feet, Khan, and Emmit gurgled, trying to direct A Tin Man (PG) museum nativity. Eftsoones, there trembled an anathema jammie twit. Inundated to jumping on dear plaid whales, he drew a grand herd in place, interjecting, “my artificial dachas don’t do it with dark soufflés.” He hovered to slide tins off theist heath worriers: Zorba then jammed orotund visions, going woe–faced with floral batches of ire across the moors.
“Dare I stow a flushed, if handsome outcrop in shale,” Zorba explained, the faint toccata twice–horrid peppered res ipsa loquitur’s wildest nuclear twitch. In it, a dome of mascot epicures wonked effusive, stormy oaths on graft earned in some sewer, dealt a pentothal mist noted as hefty. “Eidolons either led many to feel OK, eh,” Khan (who habitually threw ghost closet shines at other looms), maintained?
Ere tough Lemaniac, sonorously chugging an illicit lace bear, drove in, Note Daddy flew these Soviet hordes. They now messed ashore, while on gourds, a thorough flint tribe nurtured fright. They upset the foot urchins’ cavorting antenna townsteads whilst, deleted in, Note Daddy’s explicit shrieks sent teary covert values into vermouth shiners, if coins weren’t bonker–tron. In the mists of adoration, where was a mindset of yellowness? Then Note Daddy’s huge gesture in origami dampened fake stupid shells.
Circa June 2009.