Your non-sequitur:

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Excuse me, why is your llama shooting with my crazy smurf? Lonely llama would end if the arboreal lunatic asylum could return. If I excrete my stupid woman, the rest will take care of itself. Tambourines are totally useless when they are glacial or meager.

To the dork with a ruined transmission, even if the florida is sleeping, there is nothing more strange than a visit to the jerk. Rotate people no mortal ever dared to rotate before. People who finish the stupid door-knob filet that uncovers them usually evaporate the heretic that exhales them. A name is someone whose mad sand-box creates itself. Muses are ruined muses that only burnt pollen attack. Those who are 3-Dimensional will usually wind up massive. A realistic bomb does pulsating things, but there is one thing it does not do; It does not underflow its verbose clock.

Where is my attorney? I need a guyless bomb right away. People need orgasmic tambourines, there are too many arboreal ones. A satan is someone whose rotating masochist treads itself.

Sheep are lumpy tambourines that only soft carbeurators fling. Into the valley of smurfs rode the cheap auspicious wimp's best friend. Inherantly we proclaim forth, above the glasses. Beware the communistic intricate trousers, they aren't what they appear to be. Compact disc is an instrument used for needing a dragon. Hey smurf! Why are you patting with that tower? Where is my digital pump? I need an amorphous bomb right away. It has been said that without hypocritical sheep, only the spicy may continue to disinfect the carbeurators, without a rule-book. Age is the constipated interdimensional demon of the fuzzy spam-cow. No man is fit to splice another that cannot undulate himself. What do you think this means: Wus, there are hypocritical pianos. Never tell pianos how to penetrate things. Tell them what to chomp, and they will surprise you with their tangy scalpel. Youth is the expensive phaser of the manifest. Blech looney lycanthrope payment-salesman, instigate the fascist sheep.

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I capitulate all shoes as imperically as a poltergeist who paints shoes chops valvular smoke. The price of business is youth. Beware the itchy priceless pianos, they aren't what they appear to be.

Fiend, interrogate that spam. Touch not a single guy. In afterlife it sheltered me, and I'll torch it now. T'was my doofus's finger that placed it near his secretion, There fiend let it walk, thy byte shall torch it not. If I spew my shadow, the rest will take care of itself.

Oof!

It's the superfluous right of the terrestrial skull to push to promise itself. Without proper show, the best a friend can hope for is methodical ages past. Even with infinite show, the friend will be improper or demonstrative. I determine who is a succubus. Beware the basic sad llamas, they aren't what they appear to be.