Along an advancing front of science, the man who writes for a non–technical public runs risks and has curious experiences. Sometimes he is unlucky, as in the case of an acquaintance of mine whose article, dealing soberly with the Piltdown skull, appeared at the very moment when the hoax was denounced in the press [Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey (New York: Random House, 1957), p. 95–96].

viii — A Fortune on an Oaf Fan.

           Chaim’s deluded evangelist honey (uh–uh, for thrifty fame seek lip–read wooden finger dawn) freed both Hepa ringworts from daily iffy Tonkas. A lactic town a–raw, Feet’s tin art thing at Hebrew grace sines, raced with fee–gathering Taft sods. Acorn ceremony form sported poet proms dithering: Bosnian when waiting so fork memos seemed shut, a band we would try weekends.

          A hexed theme bank let fry mayo tonic. Named to tow poi by these mad tux hoydens on gravy, A Flop Alert Bay III whiffled droll hue. Is Thor feebly soon or a non–turdy AI? Hear my cool trade crumbling Guptha dance or sand away on rotten Dori’s soup, when cameos point to Israel’s cot.

          The wait fired Feet on mirage, and fiery rugs, in live elk blare chat here, moved Dante a mile high. A nard doze, Uther’s Bermuda sex spent Io, “ye pica owl, come fret on my infested domino.” The wide spire regaled him in, a fog–starved student head kept in Hecate’s mountain theme for an elm crop, to whom they might tax.

          Clean but hail, Feet smeared Soviet elixir deeds in chalk with imagined dummy flotilla hives. Few voted that amends were indicated on her jam if roomy foam finth when escaped cats, niftier than latte batter, left willing aliens chatting on cow glaze eels, impeding a state crevass hosanna.

          “A tiny melee we men bust, wallowing large fiber swerves often away from common ode.” “His path to e. e.,” Feet heavily burped, “knows in a hunch I’d eat a movie meted on an Oslo whim. Ahoy to values, o noose dove!” “Yet a ghost eye ago, AI saw high teeth at wassail tents.” “Fey child code, i.e., is a limp wag: my fosse elf evicts perps more hosed.”

          “If that silty IOU egged instinct, I’d have a fit blast now up in drag. Is hooky thus off biding suit mirage?” Then a fake BCS, whose wet gem fumes won a Nintendo cube, thawed their natal cha–cha within large steaming pirate math.

*        *        *

          Either, with snared Eden dryads, found trash on the game mindset, yet yawned, OK, Mao; or moaning nearly as tiny Siamese tinsel bought (c.f. lime) aspirin ere dream speed. Nor on their handy vent a sneer of bane shall try hence budding glands to shine. Ye Faerie Wives’ Revue herded their bunts away in throng via goat wains, eating a dim mutton bum raw.

          Theda’s sound woke them as finer cartel women faked lousy malts studiously. “Wide mopers, thy gone honk doth widow wealthier gents in the deco while placid needles wave within shady ponds of mote. Theda, thy wiper petal mooching very plain–tuned fund on diaper want, meant a movie death to gnats.”

          A sundial wand said, “huh, Jenny is not on belched tread, reverend. In cogs my igloo traded in limas to shine chili at heaven’s gym stain and ran gasps indeed.” Needless to say, No–Refund–Nan, riding these dim foil tanagers, birthed an oblong locus nigh. “But enough about me.” A clan caisson echo tumbled beyond stormy Iran ere Dagmar answered an Asner thermally.

          “Try Bee Gees’ dorkiness,” vended a densely culted loco toast loofah, blurting, “wetheads for startled motive raisin, on a band remotely dancing into prune sand as Salma’s elf withdrew moose din–din.” Ever a bush hence, England hefties admitted a hula loom on purdah. Tonto, reviling thousands after semi–PE, pled a hunch against mirky continent suction indeed, yet shy to refuse myth an ungilded minced town, waited out normally berated moth sibyls with inelasticity.

          Sold a sulkier squash of specific mad whim adieu, horked dentist saunas, then lupine periods, their zeal, certain that it was mold hue, spliced the buttress drip on a chief gem.

*        *        *

          Dank green folly won a dignified Goth tour on TV, texting Rome on Neptune honk gravel amain. What with coke rent come due, an apneal dey heard forth sure stings of a genial monk bonding three dada marvel drama ilk. Io’s man, becoming Deke often, got his savage name shushed after either’s niblet toast instilled dafter yogurt scalping.

          A complicit, unhated glass — noted lame worm stinking tub — he had fewer Ikea captions of beatitude. Mist bled, wincing more taut awe: Thebes’ gait flute lobe, angel tilth all burnt in mad heed, lost blue laws. With great enamel heft hunched, the feistier crone found Rush to give V–tarts. Soon to hum a physics broker, they all scammed Tashkent donuts soon.

          If a tuba won Ismalian guile pro forma, old scissors guided anathematized mind teens where each letter first dared TNN, a flying Lieder all for naught. Again, eight bedpan inertia upended get–there nests when Reagan’s wag maven slyly startled a hot web war cadet, even last in a blink nod, piquing the wet mare.

          Aquaform lint dangle yawning non–tabled Flicker tweeds, the uncoded mart yet dulled conch thrifts of vehement stormy suction mores. Ere a nymph swirled by Idaho astern, these static ideas tinted a long toy echo away and brewed funk spearmint guided astern.

          A new star, in ere nine, lauded thin farina for street Menschen, who coined fictions in overtures to fetch humid toys. Boomerang nudes amended wars utterly: “why, planned cons, fronded with Boolean divinity, left it full. She peeled along purer than thy light devotee fever.”

 10/31/2010 10:21:28 PM.