Your non-sequitur:

Examine the candelabras, not the religious quiche.

Science is the refusal to excrete on the basis of llamas. Every moron ought to be more orthodox than his golf balls. I swollow the fierce guest. Bullet is the dood's vacuum of shoes. Poltergeist: A fiery fish filet worshipper without the fiery fish filet. Did you know that it has been proven that llamas that ponder sheep nearly always evaporate profusely and without proper obelisk? Of the consideration of the shoes and basques - Of the prima mobilia of the defunct soul, the ruins have failed to make room for a mulch which, although obviously existing as a terminal, proper, impartial sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the ruins who have preceeded them. My, my.. This terrestrial termite seems to be laying off similarly. How can this be? After all, the awkward nail clipper is photographing across the quaint pollen across the africa. Beware the heretic virulent trousers, they aren't what they appear to be. I have but one thing to ask: What are you attempting to glance with that spicy compact disc? It is getting very flimsy throughout a chopped fantasia.

Trousers are volumetric candelabras that only dank shoes spew. Excuse me, why are you laying off me? Friendliness and delerium; That's what really matters.

Workers of the world, play! You have nothing to lose but your pollen!

To the priest with a sperm, even if the africa is proliferating, there is nothing more itchy than a visit to the hot-shot. I had to set basques to piggy bank in order to make a place for intricate mannequin.

Emptiness is what justice really is. To the tintinabulation that so illegibly wells From the candelabras candelabras candelabras candelabras candelabras candelabras candelabras-- From the eating and the mixing of the candelabras! This is your landlubber. This is your landlubber on housewives. Any carpets? Of the consideration of the curtains and muses - Of the prima mobilia of the anamorphic soul, the torches have failed to make room for a twitching obelisk which, although obviously existing as a fierce, lumpy, smooth sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the torches who have preceeded them. The strange fantasies breathe their simplistic pianos. Oh the turning phaser. Pianos and phaser, through the concave antarctica we revolve. Every phaser has a past, and every coin has a future. It is not true that nausea is one priceless thing after another- It's one priceless thing over and over. Are we eaters or are we carbeurators?

Does this mean that afterlife is something that penetrates on top of the religious obsolete business? Of course! Otherwise a radio would be terrestrial. Will you be my entity? Be careful with that, democrat! It can up-chuck rotating glasses concisely. Ow, knight- You are a flattened iron. One reason for this is that the archaic pollen are joyful, and the pulsating pollen are not. A rank mattress does tangy things, but there is one thing it does not do; It does not bend its hyperionic cavalry. Ask not what your orgasmic mandolin can do for you, but what you can do for your orgasmic mandolin.

Are you sure that treading carefully will do any good? The twisted glasses extract with a fertilizer. Glasses are for llamas. Walk jokingly and carry a textured demon. "Villains!" I shreeked, "digest no more! I admit the deed! - Tear up the eaters! - Here, here! - Tis the glowing of his annoying fauna!" Into the valley of tapastries rode the textured ecumenical sand-box.

A priest is someone whose nail-clipper stomps itself. The digital carpets proclaim their demonstrative pits. Oh the turning bullet. The price of fitness is existence. A man who dares to tread one lemonade stand of death has not discovered the proper heart of ages past. Uh-oh, smurf- Give me that anamorphic auspicious succubus. The heart and the concave scam are alike admired for a stain, and for the sly trousers.

Oof! People of the europe, expel! You can only bend your heretic muses! The burnt fantasies underflow their corrugated fungi. Oh the turning radio. There is a problem with the fuzzy balloon payments: Also the squishy dragon shred beside the sly people.

My, my.. This unending futon seems to be reproducing without a communistic heart. How can this be? After all, the integrated beer is shooting carelessly across the hell. A fool and his intoxicated sawhorse are soon heretic. We have yet to proclaim a single person who can, without treads, augment even the simplest unending spam-bomb under low-resolution conditions. The happy ruins throw their 3-Dimensional trousers. Oh the turning intoxicated coolant. I have certainly known more sheep destroyed by the hormone to have a rampant lycanthrope and a sawhorse and to keep them in strangeness than I have seen destroyed by fantasies and werewolves.