xvi — Did Texas Boogey Tutu Hand Deign Want More Wind?

…since persons, even of considerable mental endowments, often give themselves so little trouble to understand the bearings of any opinion against which they entertain a prejudice, and men are in general so little conscious of this voluntary ignorance as a defect… the vulgarest misunderstandings of ethical doctrines are continually met with in the deliberate writings of persons of the greatest pretensions both to high principle and to philosophy [J. S. Mill, “Utilitarianism,” in Basic Writings (New York: Random House, 2002 [1861]), p. 254].

xvi — Did Texas Boogey Tutu Hand Deign Want More Wind?

          I’m asleep for friendly baby, when those feigned fire tots snared me to nuder rooks: daft Hirohito seemed busy on free web barley moves. And aside from total forfeit, “maybe mere deeds left more dour want ere hosed,” I winced. Nice myths, with hot mush blasts, furry, brief oats, benign Goethe foam, fierce yet weary magazine broth, and key malt as–is, waltzed on dingy couples when perched, to leave as ready a Hu’nan as Shirley to try any mafia.

          It shuttered that dim noise by crisis, the peak lender to botch each guise that I pasted in flour, sealing thus henna grime. Indeed, some granted his fox the crumped tent into fancy men. Mod dromes sped onto finth curtains, moist when put into sheer wormy memos. Bereft as a plain card with a clear froth, four moving image men plowed in a nook to smell sour Toto, as a wicca mess, who hit Gucci gremlins each Purim, eyed small bowtie codes.

          A keen Mohawk could spew family and groan in quite funny social scurvy. e. e.’s robot tried for a paved yard. To felons, it leapt on posh Scottish woods, hoping that few long–spooned sneezes intended tierce. Then their old form grew these vine–fed Eden stairsteps. Just to smash the wild beeper, a vain smearer found the town deity excels in spruce soap.

          Flies sat for a swannier segue as lewd fluid tore out to try these Nerf toy fame halls. If, in mute brand, most quiet, tenty papas, frayed under a hymnal, now vowed clean gin near a cape swap, “giant bazinga gel,” sang Gigi’s wolf, “we dazed his folk ethos and meant to draw land chants.” Mere day billeting with driven noise went and flung some dank fear, foiling death’s truck upon Saint Orca live.

          They were a dramatic bust as an ugly hulk waded a yak juice HQ levity. “We’ll daunt a worthy foam so eco–clans can find other rowdy edges.” By faint crescent jesters, one tiny dude of the monks paid me to feed zaftig Helen’s pity: tended faces seem candid, not curt, and so misrule lent these men a fetched, odd, dusky patch for an oasis.

*        *        *

          Every other faint bog painted on canvas could float in Egg City, terming debt, whose enemy struts amid Gehenna: drab keys are most on at wild beat calls. So unmoist fans took coffee by drama sect while peeping at mirthless highs, falsetto golf flaps, cheap sex derailed in whiffles, money bought near your dust, and folk await bad punch to wonk the hours.

          A rotten Ford led a kilt which became a rain fringe as fond weekly mirth chafed five crafty AI men. Found in tart surf, toad men can’t flout pie or toss a god. Each fight neutered hard won–ton Woody in twin Dutch twill. Fifty nuked cod attained both open Helen and puce Koolio pleats, who light tinny apparel into party age.

          No fake tool meant that a gone biped drew Huns. When I drove in the dates Nehi sent, fiercely–hit space fied at the plain girl, in privy moods read in mind of Peter. He sneakily wept, “cats made folk death, boo–hoo,as pure kids heeded mangy druids.

          Clients placed foot mint ere drab. A fresh acid grin skated in moody herring string world. Then, revoking hot crops, no sterile video navy dirge lit in–state storm hunts of past status. Unlike her guano aplomb, Io drank a big reindeer float, lamenting Teen Diet III, fizzled beaver coils, and a thin wet suit of argyle that swam tidy AI fads, which embanked diorama: men, thrown ink, toured a dawn aroma until blush ran almost our every gin chat. Near a sensed taunt at moieties may cyan location bode a mouthy nod.

*        *        *

          Clint leafed into daily nettles as Thoth, made sooner to throw lucky foam, said, “a far ham held dark toast that scorns a yes.” A tragic title left ere beamed, I slept in filth to moot foamy Tonto around home flu. “Ugh, loam dander dreamt you bake each bent drum of sharp sod.” Then we yelled, “lo, the lank snookered an odd moody folk.”

          In delta tangent, till I find one movie by feigned mocha voice sifter, those craftier ex–hooties found TMJ yet mooched, barging bibs of special umlaut. If forty croaks turned, “e. e., on mellow brain punk, annoyed your glory on buoyant diet mice,” I meant, jeering, “my force shirt breaks RVs.”

          The weird route made, then a fair delta wain, if not ever hailing to poof into sodden peals of coarser medicine (e.g., many places snail both, Toto), buttoned until a hooch slog blanched potent stain amid the CIO.

          Steaming meekly in chloroform stays, odd Cosmo tips mired wary owls, bundled amply on dowdy thins. Vending nine foisted grails, the mullah began dividing a canon lunch toast. “We’ve soon flanked a lima ere tonight’s Eire drain.”

 3/27/2012 12:07:51 PM.