The embrace role spawns. It’s a therapeutic orbit brought to life by Sheeka’s god-like crest fuel. With wild combobulation, sparkling tendencies carved into the sides silently proclaim through a series of tumble prone, dance-crunching game fires. A newborn stain for glass marks the spot where the mighty Christ-o-saurus began its long journey inward toward a greater understanding of the peddler’s scientific reverie. In your steak-vibrating sock priest’s estimation, that’s a complete return to form.
Rain Chowder is just one way to bring back Tri-merica’s beloved armpit culture, a huge retro fad that must remain sadistically un-acknowledged. While forests idle along the Shrimp-Lamb Over-Way, a closet wiggle chunk gets heavy in a flask of hog weather. “I can’t tell if it’s a place or not!”, shouts a mote at the top of someone else’s lungs. Then another starts sweating blue stuff, and another tries to perform open heart surgery on a pair of loaded dice, and some kids start sneezing and wheezing at the sight of Jayda’s tummy jowl a.k.a. sleep force. In this sunny cave, the only measure left is a pickled school bus action that’ll inspire traveling hambots to ply their wares for Honky Neuro-Schplonkz Local 4XX2.
A translucent bubble of handlebar glory is niche market gold according to the small batch transparency issued by Cake Farmer. With all those candy floors, Asia is a trial igniting the fuse which masquerades via glow worm, and liability is guaranteed regardless of guilt, innocence, or "death by onkijuana." “What’s a roasted calabaster gotta do to get some goodies in this city?!,” screams a new chicken thinker movie’s tag line.
Turn down the sound and look around at the ship that’s run aground inside of Simmy’s frown upside down right outside ‘o’ town with a brown paper bag for the clown Amble Hound who’s bound to drown while wearing a crown…
…and you might see a royal screen.
With total insincerity, it aches and ruptures each time we try to make it work sans the improper instruction, the one written with snot in Hardly Fire’s log-out book. For most, it’s a cheezy ploog martyr, but for others it’s just an excuse to pretend that you know CPR.
Oh yeah, and about that crystalline boondock: sanctified casserole knows no bounds as our green death charity maintains the spinning cleanliness, so, if evolutionary transcendence can only affect a pie launching an egg temple across the endless room, why even count backwards?
Voided Check, oh may you reign sweetly unencumbered by the reaction of a trillion Voodoo basilisks! Best of luck with that whole I’m-gonna-secetly-paint-my-neighbors-car-to-look-like-a-blueberry-scrod project. Warmest regards to the wife of boredom and the husband of computerized mythology. The next fun tango tune goes out to Italy Jackson and its bungling psychoactive donut, may they both prosper as you fail, may they live long after everyone has forgotten about all proverbial creatures who went missing in the gaze of sustainability and freshness.