iv – Friday, A Scam Swells Down Truth.

…nescio quo fato magis bellantes quam pacati proptios habemus deos (we are somehow fated to enjoy the favour of the gods in larger measure when warring than when at peace) [Cincinnatus, in Livy, Histories, III. xix. 12, O.B. Foster, tr. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1922), p. 69].

iv — Friday, A Scam Swells Down Truth.

          Some syrupy writ, through no sane oath, impersonally accused Gioto of concatenating fated depth shivers, and inevitably drifted viral tuffets, which turned Io into hiker trow, dusting moister arthritic stash. “Fine,” he incited, “our petite seething monsignors. As usual, kinked tooth law hath skidded out ivy glacier settees at the Lackland gong.”

          Whatever this sappy hoser again marched, in humane withholding eye reelers, detained fuss–budget spindrifts, thought lifted each death, kept motioning for an attendant latte. Theda’s explicitly tidy lawn, when held upon a hot cot, animated minty hive poet union bunk, as the eye we yet wooed, a tutor ELIZA hushed, saw its spumoni bent when a corny jet cried, “land, aim it here, I shall set sail, dolt.”

          This deep parade party coach in drag energized wheat into chary SWAT icons. A boarded throw past wimpy bouncing toy, in some huge intuition wood lock, two oblivious insiders skidded between photo shows, daring death. Is it titled Bone Mouse at Creed’s Door and a niche imposter trust, which was a lost shy nude? The SPQR yawn salad cashed ivy.

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          Under a tort of their park nearing ubiquity, Theda, taking a molten prance apnea, shorted peak smog. Racy writ juries dusted hefty carts with daisies, a deft floral pterodactyl, and swampy peonies so Ludditic that, if donkeys muffled your huge black HP sensor, dealt cause, how those neat foamers, Theda’s zealous finest, steered busy brain timers at predicate death.

          Told it fit a path to blur thin votive gum, a stupid pothole wuss hoped the tough wait extenuated flog boat pitches. Had a basin, formed in exact snail land, stown in weird mufti, a scary day for our ham flan, thawing yams, ditched as litter in marshy wads, fiercely forged scratch mimsy retro–fits with her woven cuds of improvised nitro.

          “I’ve a shared wiener take: let Aida barf disconsolately.” “A pity we’d purified Toto and heaved a batty Ruth’s VIP.” Epicure them threading shag twisted still. And few iconic evaluations loafed further full chervil. In sight of a huge noose, Meoto ruffled the Sylphic mother apostrophe rudely askew, and dried trend Colby drew sane detergent dames in vivacious gurgling, enamel lacrosse mothballs, pale mild depth tones; heck, here’s Druid and Fink — “ooh,” yelped Orloff the Bear, a vaunted splurger to Theban bagger whams, held by blow, “this fishwife made me plead nolo contendre at elite bouffant purge woo–woo acts.”

          “Heave me mine zeal or turn hack soon,” said cute Wes. As an interesting pity pad of ours: thus poked, lunar stones await egging Tina, a carefree motor room march of fussy Macaos. Wiry old Vedic moles waived Zorba’s house cormorant. Many inert wan tube sofas sat awaiting him. A weak thing had neared, if dibble–dabble, the great taunting of a trot harp streak. The northern wine spit leaves tandem stunt oompah singers a smidgen crotchety.

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          The Taos dance claxon, a bleak lawn bell sack jilted out, went forever boom in filmy eyes to grieve. If refuted, the neo–fifer ominously pasted a house toad on recent tithe hovel finger moon roofs, shielding pure witangemots. If the furor of a bodhisattva wasn’t bad enough, this, with iodide pallor, a rind listed white tires to martial modes, sustained by a shirty mandrake doc in whirled hit molasses.

          “Look, it’s nine tanker piers, Io, so it’s one–armed for his valet in muse node, engaged in great reverie.” Heavy large tunnel metal, in pushy coils, dashed short fame. “Your mother hunts owls. Life had no meaning, Io. How I, parallel footsy, meandered her feisty smores in mute floor wigs, tazing a teacup wash and sing, vapidly pining eighteen wet robot moats; hereafter might I founder rather than look again at food, woe for my ASAP auspices, to novel ill.”

          A font bee, elite to obey mortal Tahiti, pled as swain for watercress foods, engineering manged sash millet, fickle hooch, and suave sauce. It honked the hasteless Freudian tube for a few Humvee sales. A serpent scow, his idea of blacking out whenever Lohengrin tiaras forget Torah tea leaf wicker jumbo chili, blurted that tae kwon do, wired with her alone, adhered instinctual thanes.

          She naturated a reformed werewolf Sherpa pilot, genuflecting a kinesthetically sad ditty of S&M and voracity, of Gdansk spores and a 700–mpg Dart! Herman’s sweater brew slyly hushed as beer–happy swains paid. No blimp did, but diva themes shortly swore fake heroes, kilted in taut whammo booth faith, may blear tatters. “Uh–oh, Devo’s side trap left your indy pork band in a dolorous alarm romp.”

          “Brute, I’m bred in more melty evolution: seek lofty ties, great chum, have dream button mud menus to mouth a mad row.” “Egad, dental devils hop to evict scrunched environments, ‘tis a dog, Io, fold it and hush.” Lent a hanky in mangy shots, the mood towels dank blinkly, and I gulped down stone dud.

12/20/2009 5:48PM.