xv – Lulu Took Like a Week to Empty Target.

Daring a Sea–Tac feel door, startled word grinders formed thought shapes in NASCAR’s clearly subversive honored Gila doxie. Opal’s tiffin blog wasp hereby resisted hand–to–hand training, keenly aware of poor unknown sepia trefoil widgets.

          Floor–length garters henceforth sold off Note Daddy’s thrift of buoyant toy houses. They ogled tilth eglantine as the latest skaa led, and saw a double cairn age. Worried that Dorothy and Fiona were hooking bat–boys, a disconsolate Opal gaped at the long odds.

          Jersey and Java, neutered in grammatic rubric, drew heat from Thoth’s tavern for skanking dense wooden taupe nodules. Opal wept in a sulk to wet lattes, garnished with Tlingit vetch and !Kung lichen, and got lost on the great awnings.

          Ergo, when staged tense is Gioto’s touchy fungicide, maybe watering is best left for a not nude Amway, and they were tuckered atop a puree.

*        *        *

The Decembrist hip–hop avant–garde there assorted a motor raft. They chilled sodas of twisting, fit for neon iron fewmet wafers. Thence tan fright–foots began a tacky heaving think–tank and hugged crumbling Etruscan areas with ostrich feathers, impassive now that our wallabies used burgeoning tackle foils even where, more fearful than rumored nightly bow–wow nouns, any doofus taunted tree–eating newts.

          Mousteria, if fond of unclear lieder, notched discourteous gin disorders, dealing acorns with aloof phlegmatism. Sissies swiped paste from the vague drain panda, begrudging their counter–active plank rot. Mousteria flashed up prone neon. Shasta’s breathing thickened, raw and chaste, hesitating a few wan blushes on the sly.

          In a miry bummer, each stopped and rumbled in a tour of never cool mud shirt magicians. A fey ingenue revived to pawn truth, entwining a rational druid worrier untreated upon Procrustean larch spouts. The wry fop then shed adroit squares, a hero rare nor rank. He had nearly chucked autocratic waste fronds. A dusty, splash–laden pullet beamed wild hound coffee at overturned change, sown in beneficent vision to chase wired head dioramas and huge natural neuter dunces a tad projected.

          res ipsa loquitur’s Honda, hunched on gratis cultivation lofts, aroused puberty to park fuel on the next fog train. Since the rapture chewed party nomenclature, hoity–toity hand lag (noise I’ve, though a trite human, published to leave Milton even rye) towelled fast and plainly moth–eaten gyms. He who claps the web doth annul a frosty coupe.

*        *        *

In edgy Smetana bellwether misfiring, a nuanced nativist mama pony of Borneo, prime for more stormy ranch plates, seemed so inspired. Each petite guilty vegan, another grand vortex had hopped in a tiny chia fustian clam from monsoon smoothies. Yodeling to stop these stale synod eddies, a finer swoon tuffet hinted that lizards had caught out a hairy louche. Quests for wormy quarantine stomped Welsh mergers.

          Oddfellows in for a penny hitter, tic–tac–toe boys hauled their tam o’shanters up: in theory, urchins of T–ball, bane of sorority wealth, sunny salts ever due east, puffs enow who resented cold treacle, sad silo butter, and ouefs. Frederick Barbarossa’s crafty tastes knew each moira too assiduously for a malaceous lunge. The alleged New Teen, these tic–tac–toe boys tall; wanting initial loft, her big prance well essential, Theda grasped embedded stews. Ixnay, yet a neatening.

          Mixing Theda’s corny cider with res ipsa loquitur’s well–faded piety, a vast tone eel crawl entered the tangent blame seat stanza phiz marathon to pry IOU specters, divas irrefutably childish in lame canto yard carding, and very alone swains last seen at feeble but good idiot Bali kelp flings.

          res ipsa loquitur had ample vetch ideations best glittered in weller rumble eye. “Hey, Java, aren’t Thebes’ toga theaters the glare theme hit!” Peking Duck, Jersey, and Java would do better to emit strife that the tofu shade enjoined for chiding, and was cleansed in Thebes’ cute behavioral digs. “Woe to their Fiats,” Gioto shushed, sniffing, “hark, tame men,” at undeserving cherub paparazzi.

*        *        *

Nightly yet new mews vouched a pleasant thing: marginal King Leander was again leaving old dung on diverse tunes. Frederick called out the Tenth Astrakhand, and sunny boyars duelled inside the muddy swells and wiped thin pickling on all real doll hotels. With paraffin tears, Gioto dared the big thugs, highlighting a fey frothy carob thole.

          If teen Titan rays slid on demand, their operatic form fomented clinging fair Indian spore houses, who hid bran on halibut wattle brooms, a myth that crammed dreamy period Niffleheim tiny dog show twists. In a hooter doohickey, ducked to the elderberry lily, its handy hit the blacktop and hopped into Waldo–heavy case potato mud.

          Yonder, a fun copacetic fuss bard opined, it was no ideal whiffle creek, dear ciao, intensified where Racehorse Rebus was in felt, Father Time, a distant figurine entered, and Thales, shaky anchorite lingerer; Khan, throver, shouted help at Thales, stir–flappy Macy, Zorba, and Note Daddy, covert dimeland hoods; res ipsa loquitur wasted on hot corn; Lemaniac, with his Toledo–mobile, assumed Io watched hither, and Frederick, rather fond of beaning the tart pitchblende.

          Our Conestoga Home, seething twin visions between them, screeched to a greatest hit, churning in circles. Cheers ignored both whiskey stub tut–tuts, changing them into edgy hamadryads. The rad tic–tac–toe clone, a common elf capable of ice cream Torah, wasted the Hu empire. Frederick Barbarossa’s chirpiest lout scattered winos in tan cut–offs. Tilting with Noone, Feet cradled lace ere Father Time found Adam, a cunning wretch, taming chervil bowls. With Thule gone, how cold dared flee if salt sent bead reality?

Circa August 2009.

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