Does anyone wonder about why everyday on Microsoft News we have an article like`Putin Falls Down Stairs and Shits Himself' ... `Putin Seems Dizzy and Weak'. Does anyone really believe anything that is `in the news`?
The other thing I have noticed over the last while is the normalization of death in young people. eg `Young Tiktok Influencer Passes Away a 23'
So, ya, dying is really cool, maybe you can do it too.
According to the Spruce Eats, the ingredients must consist of Italian 0 or 00 wheat flour that’s hand kneaded or slow kneaded by mixer, real San Marzano tomatoes, only one of two types of mozzarella, fresh basil, and extra-virgin olive oil.(unquote)
I made my pizza with Emmentaler cheese and Promiscuous Skank olive oil and you know what? I'm glad, glad, GLAD!!! Wuo-ha-ha-ha-ha! Let the Naples Pizza Police come after me!
Personally, I only use extra, extra, extra virginal Olive oil. It works like this:
Before the olive seed itself has been pollinated and begun to grow you rip everything from the tree, feed it to a goat named Mary. With the resulting detritus of such feeding, you strain it, purify it,... and there ya go,.... extra, extra, extra virginical Olive oil. . Another possible process, which I have not investigated in detail, is to take Popeye's girlfriend, have her sweat profusely, scrape her body, (softly and kindly of course, and only with her permission) and you might get somethin outa it.
I'm sorely confused. For three years, almost to the day, I was indoctrinated that wellness consisted in giving the Fauci-ist salute in public at all times (i.e., wearing a face mask.) That and getting jabbed with needles about as often some heroin-hustlin' call-boy bung-jockey. What they called "vaticanization." NOW youse come to tell me how I gotta practice sitting quietly in yogurt? That THIS is real, honest-to-Hippocrates wellness.
Sitting in yougurt (or `your gurt', as they say up north) has a well documented influence on one's wellbeingnessivity. Yougurt should be at minus 10 degrees Kelvin, it should be located high in the Himilayas, preferably in a cave. You need to say `oooomm' every fifteen seconds, you must be stark naked. The Vedas are very clear on this. I would give you about 3 hours, and you wellness problems will be fully cured.
I am patiently waiting for your ` Bestest Quiche in Beijing' contest. Now I know real men don't eat quiche, so therefore I don't what I am, cuz I do like quiche. I never wear a dress, or ladies undies. I can slaughter and dress a deer out in the woods, and I can hoe potatoes all day under the screaming sunlight. I can recite all 256 of the irregular verbs, in all of their tenses, and in their various Merican, Kanajun, an Englandish versions. I can't fully do the Jamaican, however. But, I ain't no country bumpkin.
But quiche is fine and dandy by my lights, so gets on the job Bob. We need some quiche contests. Get on the phone, line up the advertisers, lickety split.
A year without a bang? Check out www.incels.is They cater to folks with that problem.
Listen man, we gots hamigua , xigua, blow up dolls,..... all cheap on pinduoduo. Though I still can't get me watermellon to go `oh, oh, .. ohhhhhh, oh yeah, oh yeah, ooooh yeaaaah baby. ' That's me next business venture. Moanin Melons are Us.
Ah yes, who can forget H.R. Giger and his `Penis Landscape' circa 1984, centrefold for the Dead Kennedy's `Frankenchrist' . Rows upon rows of penis s copulating doggy style. Oh the heady dayz of 1980s punk. Good thing this is in `Jingkids'. Or is it only `Jingkids International'?
I guess they figger it's important for kids to get good "grooming," as it were.
do nunbudy know how to write `penis' in the plural? i am inclined, yes I am slowly becoming inclined... thaas nother mather. But. really is it `penii'? What does Gorgeous have to say? I am more inclined now to think peniss, but I am gaddanged with where the apostrophe lives.
Frank was incensed, so was Myrrhy, dagnabit, nonetheless hit the jackrabbit pot. Nothin like a nice yong roasted Coney when yer out riddin the rods. Nearby bucktooth farmer's rutabaga does not have any negative connottations. None theless looking still for something Everclear. (Spectacles musta bin greased, I guess)
Now , I know that the general tenor of this entire website, and, particulary that of the `food' part thereof, needs be one of laffingness and jocularity. As in `does anyone really give a fuck about this and that dish of food. Really? Was that really the `cheesiest' `burger' ever eaten? Does anyone on this planet really give a fuck about this? (By the way, I am looking for some cheap Thai, cocconut oil essential, a daschund of curcumin powder may help, any references?) I propse your next contest be `cheapest, bestest, nearby cheap spicy Thai contest)
But of epiphanies, I have thoughts; which, by posting here, I could only besmirch. ...
So, instead, `lickey split, get on the job, Bob, we need some hot and spicy Thai food contest.
Epiphany, you say? Yes indeedy, I have epiphanies, ... like daily. I don't generally eat nothin' different, though, on them days. Maychance have some gastritis, but that is a separate matter.
(tie your bootlaces in the manner suggested; or suffer the lonliness and abjuration of hoppingness on one foot) Follow me: I. next: X: now :D, very good now, 非常好！ now we have :K (sounds like 快 。。。 sorta) then `twenty one' (sounds like 图问题问。。。sorta) now, ya gots it. ！！ You can now enter the code!
Ah yes, who can forget H.R. Giger and his `Penis Landscape' circa 1984, centrefold for the Dead Kennedy's `Frankenchrist' . Rows upon rows of penis s copulating doggy style. Oh the heady dayz of 1980s punk. Good thing this is in `Jingkids'. Or is it only `Jingkids International'?
So there was Sam, Sam, Hairy and Job. Hairy was an hairy man an he liked his mess of pottage he did. Sam (the second) bounced , younger brother of Hairy, jocundly and profusely thereabouts. How this ends we all know, except for the first Sam, whom by reports retired to solitude somewhere in Tibet.
Enter the evil communinatrix below. likedty split buddy.
"On sandye strand at Nali Patio did fierce Fei Hongjun fayrehair beach his long-boats twentye/ Lustry Landorde Longshanks Li his thousand thanes and thralls dide assymble/ "By Donner's hammyre Mjolnir mighty, ye the Patio lay waste and raze!..."
Truer words ain't bin spoke.
Pop the following button, sneeze clearly on ye sleeve.
Then why publish the survey? As you yourselves note, it is skewed more ways than a hedgehog has spines. Likewise, the severity of symptoms graph is useless. It lumps together the verifiable (asymptomatic) with the subjective ("unbearable.") That last deserves further comment. "Bearable" varies greatly from individual. Also "unbearable" verges on self-contradictory. An individual who is suffering the unbearable does not respond to surveys. One who later does respond to a survey musy, clearly, have borne the symptoms.
Still hail to Safe and Sane, the post-modern SS. Their motto? "Unsere Ehre heißt tremulous!"
The `health measures' did not come into existence to deal with the `pandemic'; rather the `pandemic' was created to produce the `health measures'. `Health measures' including, universal tracking, universal control of movement, (and soon) universal control of access to money. That is, all money will become digitized and non-physical, non-anonymous. The only money will be on your phone, and can be turned off lickety split. Access to money and the ability to buy and sell will be completely controlled.
The actual `pandemic' per se, is completely fraudulent. There was not,-- and is-- not, a pandemic.
So the private high school I am working at in Zhejiang had the Mighty Clovid come rip roaring through. Dozens of students testing positve, entire student body sent home. So Friday afternoon all the staff... teaching staff, administrative staff etc (of the English Department, and other departmenst) all ordered to get single test tube Covid test. Which I duly du. Of the 15 members of our wechat group, 14 of them tested positive, got themselves a red code. Thus need to isolate. A handful, (i think 4 or 5) had mild symptoms.. low grade fever, coughing. One of the bunch, in short ..me, had a negative result, no symptoms whatsoever. It just so happens that one of the bunch, that is : me, has never had a vaccination in his adult life and all the rest had gotten every shot, every booster, whatever they were told to get. This hardly a scientific review of evidence, nonetheless, scratch yer head a wee bit.
Tell people Sufis don't get COVID and you'd have a line from halal to breakfast bangin' on the doors of every mosque in town.
It takes a special kinna Musclemann tho to be a Sufi, -- yas gotsa be a good dancer fer one, and it helps to be aShamsed a bit. Best not to thro out the Bab with the Ba'ath water, Tho. That would be inSufierable.
(enter the code as above so below; however spacelessly)
There is a very pertinent Sufi tale that relates in a fundamental way to the incipience and progress of the dreaded illness that plagues our world. Don't be fooled by my words. When I say plague, I mean PLAGUE, BUDDY!
Anyways, a great prophet was raised up from the wilderness, --as the world is wont to do,-- to admonish, warn, and to save.
Kidder was his name. This apt named Kidder explained that soon all the water in the world would disappear, and be supplanted, after 40 days and 40 nights, with different water.
`The new water will drive you mad' Kidder explained, `To save yourselves, you must hoard all the water here on earth. Save it, and you will be saved.'
Alas, but one man paid Kidder heed. This fellow, mashang, (that's an adverb, not a name) began collecting all the water he could. From rivers and streams, ponds and pools-- nay, verily into puddles, cricks, ditches and sloughs did the water he source.
This water he did save... wineskins, plastic tubs, empty 2.46 liter ergoutou bottles... any vessel of the name `vessel' did he fill, and stashed away in a secret cave, which location was known only to himself. That's... um... like why it was secret.
Lo and behold, old Kidder weren't kiddin, and yuelaiyue, the rivers up did dry, the merciful rain from heaven did up an desist, lakes did Saharafy,-- in short the world was dry as a leftover chickenfinger bone left on a south facing windowsill in August.
Nonetheless, this unnamed man, sitting alone in his Stygian tenebrosity, remained well hydrated, and ate lots of garlic, mung bean sprouts, read hisself some Sufi tales (in Brail, obviously, duh) thus remaining hale and hearty.
True to the prophet Kidder's words, after a time, times, and half a time, did the new waters replenish the lakes and pools and rivers.
Those residents that did survive, but barely, the drought, were overjoyed and supped their fill of delicious new water.
The cave man (now known to be known as `Mashang') thus returned his way to his fellow village folk in hope of re-commencing his erstwhile communion themswith.
`Hail there fellow wellmet'! (that's an adverb, not a name) he was heard to remonstrate with erst companions.
Alas, what but blank eyes though did dodder through their slobbering gulps of `new' water.
Mashang (that's a name, not an adverb) was crushed. The villagers had all gone mad, what's more, contended that in fact he-Mashang- was the one that was mad.
Such being the case Mashang was driven to isolation, loneliness and bereftness of human companionship.
At long last Mashang could bear it no more: `Give me some of your mad water!' finally Mashang bellowed.
Thus: imbibing, slaking, and forgetting-- indeed did Mashang come to love Big Brother.
Lord have mercy,! Waimai drivers fallin ill of the Clovid hoofed devil, penurious staff callin in sick dedevilled by sniffles. Watt has our world come to? Can't even git me a luscious Juicy Burgery (TM) lickety split. All I knows is that the only thin I bin sick uh last thirty plus years has come outa a bottle. Ain't been vaccinated since i was a baby beyond my memory, at my mother's behest, and ain't had no medicine since I had a touch of a drippsy off my weewee, owin to an ill spent night in Prince Rupert, just before leaving on a salmon troller, and two weeks of pissing glass. Other than that I think I mayuh had a toucha turbuleaocus, after another ill-spent night in Prince George lickin on ill regarded sweet meats. But since then have had not a cough, sore throat, fever, respiratory distress of any sort . Not even no phlegm, though on occasion phlegmatic. Must be the nightly 3 raw cloves uh garlic. Thus, my dread of the MIGHTY COVID is somewhere between lightnin strike or turnin gay, which I deem likely in odds.
Yes indeedy, I reckon half a the lower Poltroonia Gulch made ther way down inta Brackets holler by stealth of night, to do themselves a little mis-seeding. Such a motley buncha rugrats bawlin for ther various Ma ya never did see. All Momas' could ever say was `Ifn you don stopped bawlin, ya ain't gettin no grits an peas, never mind a Juicy Burger' liken them class folks over'n Bayjingx'
Firstly, we’re so sorry to hear that Camera Stylo will be closing. Can you tell us a bit about why this is happening? There are many reasons, but maybe I shouldn’t say them publicly. Over the past three years Camera Stylo has been closed for about a year in total. During that time, I noticed a big change in the energy of Beijing.
This is tellying you everything you need to know. Unbeliveable how this city died in few years.
I remember back when I was a young buck, I was skippin about ,gourmanding an audiophiling all to the east and west. Had me a fine Greek salad, I did ,with no lettuce. . Went and saw an up an coming band which was all the rage in th the local rag. They was all total shit. I gots ears an I got a brain. I know music. Don't piss on me leg an tell me its a rarinin.
Enter the entry from the the entry entry that has been entry entered before before and befroe. Enter. Now, mutha funker!
So, Chinese girlfriend , married, ( whose husband is trying to find an kill me, or at least cut off my penis) askus me why I drink. I says `cuz life is so tedious, an it helps me think'. What do you think about?, says she. Wittgensteins Tractatus, the structure of musical notation, the metaphysical implications of hopscotch say I. Hahaha says she. Can't find a good woman nowheres. (though I must say, she has a heart of gold, and a mind made of butter) Heart trumps mind, every time. Ya gotsa heart, mind an body. Mind trumps body, heart trumps mind. That's how I see things.
Enter the pogrom above and get a free hookworm injunction.
Didn't Nick Lowe or George Jones or mebbe Gustav Mahler write a song about this kind of situation, "If You Don't Start Drinking, I'm Gonna Leave"?
Actually, though, to get any woman's permission to drink, just make friends with Mormons or Joe Hoover's Witnesses or some other teetotalling sect. When the lady sees your friends don't drink, she'll try to poison your relationship and start serving margaritas for breakfast, neat bourbon at afternoon tea and cetera.
Actually i was part of Joe Hoover's for many a long year. bout 22 give or take. I got the bible up the yinyang for many a year. Monday, Wednesday, Sunday.... more bible and scriptural liteature ( ie there propaganda) They is not teatolling though, just drink in moderation, for one must remember the turning of water into wine. Of course this was in the Gospel of John, which is so thoughougly saturated with neo-Platonismisc motiffs that ya gotsa be an idjid not to see it. But them Joe Hoovers are a bit thick.
Enter the colour of your right foot biggest toenail and/ or the UVF frequency emanating from you earlobe drone device.
Which calls to mind the difference between Joe Hoover's Witlesses and a Pontiac Aztek: you can shut the door on the Joe Hoovers.
Which also raises a theological question. Will there be a premillennial end to COVID constrictions? We all know what happened close to home a week ago on that static front. and meantime the Yanks are pimping away for a new round of schoolkids' shots all because its a human right for the aged and infirm to go on sucking wind past the century mark.
Everything writen in this thread is complet bollderdarsh, an I disafunction with it in afundmentical discombobulsyiotnidm So sayeth thw lwader oc thw freew world, etc.
Enter the picnic in the park with your friends quickly.
Does anyone wonder about why everyday on Microsoft News we have an article like`Putin Falls Down Stairs and Shits Himself' ... `Putin Seems Dizzy and Weak'. Does anyone really believe anything that is `in the news`?
The other thing I have noticed over the last while is the normalization of death in young people. eg `Young Tiktok Influencer Passes Away a 23'
So, ya, dying is really cool, maybe you can do it too.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Before the olive seed itself has been pollinated and begun to grow you rip everything from the tree, feed it to a goat named Mary. With the resulting detritus of such feeding, you strain it, purify it,... and there ya go,.... extra, extra, extra virginical Olive oil. . Another possible process, which I have not investigated in detail, is to take Popeye's girlfriend, have her sweat profusely, scrape her body, (softly and kindly of course, and only with her permission) and you might get somethin outa it.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Sitting in yougurt (or `your gurt', as they say up north) has a well documented influence on one's wellbeingnessivity. Yougurt should be at minus 10 degrees Kelvin, it should be located high in the Himilayas, preferably in a cave. You need to say `oooomm' every fifteen seconds, you must be stark naked. The Vedas are very clear on this. I would give you about 3 hours, and you wellness problems will be fully cured.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
I am patiently waiting for your ` Bestest Quiche in Beijing' contest. Now I know real men don't eat quiche, so therefore I don't what I am, cuz I do like quiche. I never wear a dress, or ladies undies. I can slaughter and dress a deer out in the woods, and I can hoe potatoes all day under the screaming sunlight. I can recite all 256 of the irregular verbs, in all of their tenses, and in their various Merican, Kanajun, an Englandish versions. I can't fully do the Jamaican, however. But, I ain't no country bumpkin.
But quiche is fine and dandy by my lights, so gets on the job Bob. We need some quiche contests. Get on the phone, line up the advertisers, lickety split.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Listen man, we gots hamigua , xigua, blow up dolls,..... all cheap on pinduoduo. Though I still can't get me watermellon to go `oh, oh, .. ohhhhhh, oh yeah, oh yeah, ooooh yeaaaah baby. ' That's me next business venture. Moanin Melons are Us.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
do nunbudy know how to write `penis' in the plural? i am inclined, yes I am slowly becoming inclined... thaas nother mather. But. really is it `penii'? What does Gorgeous have to say? I am more inclined now to think peniss, but I am gaddanged with where the apostrophe lives.
Frank was incensed, so was Myrrhy, dagnabit, nonetheless hit the jackrabbit pot. Nothin like a nice yong roasted Coney when yer out riddin the rods. Nearby bucktooth farmer's rutabaga does not have any negative connottations. None theless looking still for something Everclear. (Spectacles musta bin greased, I guess)
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Now , I know that the general tenor of this entire website, and, particulary that of the `food' part thereof, needs be one of laffingness and jocularity. As in `does anyone really give a fuck about this and that dish of food. Really? Was that really the `cheesiest' `burger' ever eaten? Does anyone on this planet really give a fuck about this? (By the way, I am looking for some cheap Thai, cocconut oil essential, a daschund of curcumin powder may help, any references?) I propse your next contest be `cheapest, bestest, nearby cheap spicy Thai contest)
But of epiphanies, I have thoughts; which, by posting here, I could only besmirch. ...
So, instead, `lickey split, get on the job, Bob, we need some hot and spicy Thai food contest.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Epiphany, you say? Yes indeedy, I have epiphanies, ... like daily. I don't generally eat nothin' different, though, on them days. Maychance have some gastritis, but that is a separate matter.
(tie your bootlaces in the manner suggested; or suffer the lonliness and abjuration of hoppingness on one foot) Follow me: I. next: X: now :D, very good now, 非常好！ now we have :K (sounds like 快 。。。 sorta) then `twenty one' (sounds like 图问题问。。。sorta) now, ya gots it. ！！ You can now enter the code!
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Ah yes, who can forget H.R. Giger and his `Penis Landscape' circa 1984, centrefold for the Dead Kennedy's `Frankenchrist' . Rows upon rows of penis s copulating doggy style. Oh the heady dayz of 1980s punk. Good thing this is in `Jingkids'. Or is it only `Jingkids International'?
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
So there was Sam, Sam, Hairy and Job. Hairy was an hairy man an he liked his mess of pottage he did. Sam (the second) bounced , younger brother of Hairy, jocundly and profusely thereabouts. How this ends we all know, except for the first Sam, whom by reports retired to solitude somewhere in Tibet.
Enter the evil communinatrix below. likedty split buddy.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Pop the following button, sneeze clearly on ye sleeve.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
The `health measures' did not come into existence to deal with the `pandemic'; rather the `pandemic' was created to produce the `health measures'. `Health measures' including, universal tracking, universal control of movement, (and soon) universal control of access to money. That is, all money will become digitized and non-physical, non-anonymous. The only money will be on your phone, and can be turned off lickety split. Access to money and the ability to buy and sell will be completely controlled.
The actual `pandemic' per se, is completely fraudulent. There was not,-- and is-- not, a pandemic.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
So the private high school I am working at in Zhejiang had the Mighty Clovid come rip roaring through. Dozens of students testing positve, entire student body sent home. So Friday afternoon all the staff... teaching staff, administrative staff etc (of the English Department, and other departmenst) all ordered to get single test tube Covid test. Which I duly du. Of the 15 members of our wechat group, 14 of them tested positive, got themselves a red code. Thus need to isolate. A handful, (i think 4 or 5) had mild symptoms.. low grade fever, coughing. One of the bunch, in short ..me, had a negative result, no symptoms whatsoever. It just so happens that one of the bunch, that is : me, has never had a vaccination in his adult life and all the rest had gotten every shot, every booster, whatever they were told to get. This hardly a scientific review of evidence, nonetheless, scratch yer head a wee bit.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
It takes a special kinna Musclemann tho to be a Sufi, -- yas gotsa be a good dancer fer one, and it helps to be aShamsed a bit. Best not to thro out the Bab with the Ba'ath water, Tho. That would be inSufierable.
(enter the code as above so below; however spacelessly)
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
There is a very pertinent Sufi tale that relates in a fundamental way to the incipience and progress of the dreaded illness that plagues our world. Don't be fooled by my words. When I say plague, I mean PLAGUE, BUDDY!
Anyways, a great prophet was raised up from the wilderness, --as the world is wont to do,-- to admonish, warn, and to save.
Kidder was his name. This apt named Kidder explained that soon all the water in the world would disappear, and be supplanted, after 40 days and 40 nights, with different water.
`The new water will drive you mad' Kidder explained, `To save yourselves, you must hoard all the water here on earth. Save it, and you will be saved.'
Alas, but one man paid Kidder heed. This fellow, mashang, (that's an adverb, not a name) began collecting all the water he could. From rivers and streams, ponds and pools-- nay, verily into puddles, cricks, ditches and sloughs did the water he source.
This water he did save... wineskins, plastic tubs, empty 2.46 liter ergoutou bottles... any vessel of the name `vessel' did he fill, and stashed away in a secret cave, which location was known only to himself. That's... um... like why it was secret.
Lo and behold, old Kidder weren't kiddin, and yuelaiyue, the rivers up did dry, the merciful rain from heaven did up an desist, lakes did Saharafy,-- in short the world was dry as a leftover chickenfinger bone left on a south facing windowsill in August.
Nonetheless, this unnamed man, sitting alone in his Stygian tenebrosity, remained well hydrated, and ate lots of garlic, mung bean sprouts, read hisself some Sufi tales (in Brail, obviously, duh) thus remaining hale and hearty.
True to the prophet Kidder's words, after a time, times, and half a time, did the new waters replenish the lakes and pools and rivers.
Those residents that did survive, but barely, the drought, were overjoyed and supped their fill of delicious new water.
The cave man (now known to be known as `Mashang') thus returned his way to his fellow village folk in hope of re-commencing his erstwhile communion themswith.
`Hail there fellow wellmet'! (that's an adverb, not a name) he was heard to remonstrate with erst companions.
Alas, what but blank eyes though did dodder through their slobbering gulps of `new' water.
Mashang (that's a name, not an adverb) was crushed. The villagers had all gone mad, what's more, contended that in fact he-Mashang- was the one that was mad.
Such being the case Mashang was driven to isolation, loneliness and bereftness of human companionship.
At long last Mashang could bear it no more: `Give me some of your mad water!' finally Mashang bellowed.
Thus: imbibing, slaking, and forgetting-- indeed did Mashang come to love Big Brother.
--------------------------------------------------
Not making this up. Indeed this is a Sufi tale . Them Sufi's clever folks they is. Enough to give one hope, of a sort.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Lord have mercy,! Waimai drivers fallin ill of the Clovid hoofed devil, penurious staff callin in sick dedevilled by sniffles. Watt has our world come to? Can't even git me a luscious Juicy Burgery (TM) lickety split. All I knows is that the only thin I bin sick uh last thirty plus years has come outa a bottle. Ain't been vaccinated since i was a baby beyond my memory, at my mother's behest, and ain't had no medicine since I had a touch of a drippsy off my weewee, owin to an ill spent night in Prince Rupert, just before leaving on a salmon troller, and two weeks of pissing glass. Other than that I think I mayuh had a toucha turbuleaocus, after another ill-spent night in Prince George lickin on ill regarded sweet meats. But since then have had not a cough, sore throat, fever, respiratory distress of any sort . Not even no phlegm, though on occasion phlegmatic. Must be the nightly 3 raw cloves uh garlic. Thus, my dread of the MIGHTY COVID is somewhere between lightnin strike or turnin gay, which I deem likely in odds.
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
`We mis-seeded the Brackets'
Yes indeedy, I reckon half a the lower Poltroonia Gulch made ther way down inta Brackets holler by stealth of night, to do themselves a little mis-seeding. Such a motley buncha rugrats bawlin for ther various Ma ya never did see. All Momas' could ever say was `Ifn you don stopped bawlin, ya ain't gettin no grits an peas, never mind a Juicy Burger' liken them class folks over'n Bayjingx'
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
This is tellying you everything you need to know. Unbeliveable how this city died in few years.
I remember back when I was a young buck, I was skippin about ,gourmanding an audiophiling all to the east and west. Had me a fine Greek salad, I did ,with no lettuce. . Went and saw an up an coming band which was all the rage in th the local rag. They was all total shit. I gots ears an I got a brain. I know music. Don't piss on me leg an tell me its a rarinin.
Enter the entry from the the entry entry that has been entry entered before before and befroe. Enter. Now, mutha funker!
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.
Enter the picnic in the park with your friends quickly.
a
I am Doktor Aethelwise Snapdragoon.