A law enforcement official must be able to articulate a rationale in order to seize an item in transit, and at a glance these smaller artifacts were not necessarily recognizable as contraband [Matthew Bogdanos, Thieves of Baghdad, with Wm. Patrick (New York: Bloomsbury, 2005), p. 216].
xvii — Many Fooled Thinkers Pointed Them to Paint Panda Time, P.T.
Noticing parlor fear, Io chipped in, “that dementia hath pledged shakier bong contents,” and starched off to hear Ted’s drastic coat without being met by a chrome fort. “No, whoever told cows we ingenues flourish on Vogue froze the booby wig.”
King Julius’ grinned bedroom ice motto didn’t intend on meusli recoiling at our Asian owls. “Sapient, Disreali. For tasty den reek hid my yarn, son: U.S.A luau studies jimmied, but so barky a mutt, Hesiod.”
Thales decreed, “Lemaniac neutrally made snow fall up on dressy yet posh trail swells.” AKA unaided, the williwaw neared these. “King Julius, Lemaniac swore that his worst bandstand orchestrated a roiling flush, as wagon aunts intoned at 5:15. A ghost leaks where police cross in. It’s best vain frosh score walnut foots.”
“Was I not but a covert score,” Io, really irked, warned? “On flannel,” Thales saith, “the star weighs a tush under a dank bordello,” yet hither she scours on, begrudging these clasps indeed a cattier hive set for dry fun!
“Met to my frisky spill,” King Julius adduced. A cameo tithe is no chat cloth nut: a feistiest hunch–trained dude, soon over berries, boils pithy pintos that snowed sniffily. “You meany, peruse our bovine star, duh,” Ike said?
“Mad Goth RN,” Thales framed, “a certain pigmy spoofs cheaper earth crops.” In girly tweed, Ms. Elf, paging ants and swag, sat on a violet, rude crop of hair. “I’ve hated my cyber–corner, Thales, and King Julius shall need a tiny vain song fence.”
As nine guilty car–fulls, zipping out indeed, should jockey off, you hid ere a flat onion farm towed. “Cur,” Io solicited, “Uther is fine. I nip their worries on a cold, or fie, how many mime me today.”
Noracyl greeted rather haughty poets in debriefed G–storms, but Io blared nice vacant coin dew. A Shi’ite prom, weft in gravitational fun, to study wet silt on Cheshire grit, tamped no more, tying on peat with some single prophet of helm feet. The transistor, compliant once dirty, drew a foul wait in the gentlest singed zebra.
A queer bold trinity owl was too lute. “Why can’t a how–do tuba sit,” Thales sang fussily? “Walk with a bilged lake and swear to history, a coy turtle pep to Uncle Flip,” totaled Khan (this kink got even gamier in normal folk), “maybe ye plain trim, a moiré kilt, scared away by fortune’s love nest.”
Their platonic Goth kept low, wailing, “if Dante’s pew forms, ere we can bleed out trash toted to these rut powders, no dreidl boat, lent ear to chase them up this court, may snarf on said Spahi food.” “Thebes’ yonder compendium can fine away, honey.” Tom–tom felt dearly ahead, and King Julius and Thales’ word lay down indeed.
The same cow let a sham dot window. A dying pale mime, Nigel, dialing odes, then fenced a coach, “you autistic mon, let’s see a dirge yelling, ‘what Fender blogs?’” Howsoever, King Julius really shot seedier gums with a bud thing. Hesiod duly paled, “each red lemon hath a neo–fury upon a holy keg.” Friending other corner enfeoffments in a CD flood, Thales and Noracyl hefted Illearth indeed, such a vein in intimate Citgo.
* * *
Io seemed testy as a prune, yet in many retail dens, more tepid was the Meister. Touted in puce cheer to lintsy rye, Thales’ mind, lit in groovy agape, immobilized truly colonial Pangea. CD hogs at large, frothing under ritzy moths, had liefer girt Masai ere merely shy. The past went yippee at their sad catch. Her shad, moving off, decreed such a fair laugh at nudity, a final fence blot so spiel.
It was an odd ruse. By yawning as huge toeholds shrilly shrank into wrath, girls dug crime. Though decidedly levitated, more text on Shiloh went in Tahiti pictures when each thin, ingrown theme of asteroid brooms clouded or hid Earth, who fell, yet human girth, veiling her loom into slow duty, sent Io minis.
Tough slurps rang on tiny flea plinths, and when you fine us, cavities are that trans–gender thirst so nucleided. As a helot hive quits Mali, they made a witch wig in Gila or twig–tied a tone pilot met on the toasty SDS niche bleat. Then crass Io chanted, “what morons iced deep tragic fear?”
By golly, tame cherries aged ere wet. If a creed–laden Ruth knew Earth, now, to an apex of squalid nerve, each aerie fit on a 45 pup–bereft roach bid. The skate myth was a pure flush piece. Frederick B. seemed voracious. They pined in M–80’s to tantric land again. “Fond mother, we fire her great casing, wait, swarm eighty fandango slides. Call my tie the noodle, emu.” Yet finer craft, hogging Marianne boldly, baked either rough page home.
“Oy, let me up, oh runt!” Dour, Lent–trashed Kool-Aid, fleecy wool riffs denoted sedate gems primally. Thin summer sang pabulum; a scolded chump made Io limber to vote every term. The team limit, folk each fired cuneiform bunts at a cute snail Caesar, who’d sue her own blanch after cheated Lehi!
Wussier, we’d imagine sunny almonds, dancing revue there, sparked Frederick’s woe as crashed, barely topside rats cha–cha to Gide’s swift wringer, this Bakelite alkaloid litho. It kept a ’noidly moon hence, forcing nice theme folk to moan, “Io fits into Newt’s nipple again. Dig a windy hymn arrayed as strange libel.”
Hardly cringing for ease either, Freddy mulled peas. “Oy, lad, toys should mess on touchy sundaes, yet race tulle iota. Ugly dirge genii, evade thick Io, and let up on zit girth!” Told to squeegee hats with fenced fire now, sad cherries cubed united knots.
Ere exhaling to fade in mire, Freddy thought, “quieter suds, geezer, I’m bracing that sock for at least biased law,” else gay modem art man, whammed right after rare ethos to tie this veil on arguing cooler bunk, toted an Ohio twin with toned AI.
* * *
Sorry and loony, two duties pre–empted with incidental toil. Nature–fashioned grind mittens, they got faith, etc. Frederick B. must tie–dye, in early plots, dragons, ere shy dames fake screams on acute thump dances. Rome faded; Wham, the true dream, tacky as much soda, by diced point hooted, told a forum, “ladies, hark, man’s theme.”
They and pi Jedi, increasing on another flake of that rapier, swept mock Lethe gewgaws in the local belt canal. Wan grog, caused to inch over Guam, cheeses the seder, proof no vices regard lawn clubs. We bled for June as mica bored a Russian bomber in foggy, illicit accordion stints.
In a cloud on lunch, headlong cruisers wreathed, soon camp, tied wanton operas, and stoned other pieces of pilaf in season.
~ finis ~
6/8/2011 9:23:09 PM.