House Special

If you have read this blog before, or have met either one of us, you know that we have at least one forte in common; we can talk about nonsense for as long as we want. I have decided to find the limit of my God-given ability through this blog post. You are not required to read it, or even advised to for personal safety reasons. I do this in the name of science. Wish me luck.

Once under a time there was not a Larry. She found that it is blue and white, with those tiny, little, itsy-bitsy, eensy-weensy, smallish things slightly to the left of the air vent. And when it happened, the conjunction elbowed its way to the front of the sentence, making the dogs eat things that dogs cannot eat without a funnel and a snorkel. Had the darkness personified the lamb, the Earth would see in the mirror the opposite of lanyard: a hobbit. So it came to pass that the camera was invented, larking and twisting so that the flask of pumpkin juice seeped through the walrus, turning them all to stone. When in doubt hop on one foot and see the way the seams on the curtains break with the feather of a mop. There were mumbled oranges when I came sideways, reaching the top of the bottomless pit of larceny. Speaking of which, no. Folders of ladles ease the pain when moles come to wallow, Hank the Great. So I gnatted the whole lot of them, dipped them in tar, and called the fire brigade to send in the clowns. Cold feet in the summer is like patting a spiky-type lizard god without a head (on either the painter or the humanitarian). Save for this, the taste of rock musicians in mid-morning can be near the Land of the Flowing Typewriters. That's when it missed me completely and went on to hit someone else. At least, I think the kid in the double-barreled jumpsuit is the cranberry messenger. So says the two and only garage cleaner of the Western Isles, when the pogo sticks have all run out to buy the yoyo tool kit. The chemicals laughed, putting the omelets all over the museum entrance, with only a horse's winning nose to spare. Noodles of every shape and famine-bringing pest preference paraded in the closet, feeling the gallons of marble chippings being poured down the shirts of the wise men. Near that time, the Great carpet Revolt took the laundromat to the tailor's, crunching the lambasted parakeets in their shaving cream houses. A grandfather clock is worth more than a smaller grandfather clock when the tables of Autumn reach to the city and flick the windowsill with a q-tip. The flowing pants of crystalline nature cannot be hogtied by any other than the novice harbor master of Wyoming.

Alright. I got bored.