he was shambolic, or bucolic, or maybe he just had colic. it was one of those olics, in any case. i was absolutely certain of this as i refilled the lead (actually pywrite) in my mechanical pen, flicking a timecube off my shoulder like jerry falwell trapped in a bowel. the moment was further tangentiated when it transpired that i should discover my glass was empty of cranzletude, necessitating a timely refill. as happens about once a fortnight, i got lost in the refrigerator, and had to take a moped back home from the bronx. i picked up a pafflet of zeppelin crisps, vowing to get at least something out of this malarkey, while also scheduling an appointment with the refridgerexorcist, but this was too much to do at once, so i accidentally dropped the pafflet of zeppelin crisps, and had to pick them up again after my brain recovered from yet another abortive attempt at multitasking. sitting back down at my desk, i again attempted to make sense of the situation:
he was shambolic, or bucolic, or maybe he just had colic. he made handgoblins with his nose (john kricfalusi, if you want to meet me, you can come over and wax my automobile next thursday, but not before then). i was absolutely certain of this as i refilled the ink (actually plutonium) in my fortified delorian, flicking a timecube off my shoulder like kenneth copeland trapped in a cow's uterus. the moment was further tangentiated when it transpired that i should discover my delorian didn't actually exist, necessitating an adjustment of my reality tunnel. yet, i seemed to have traveled in time anyways, as the refridgerexorcist showed up for the appointment i'd made a fortnight whence. he told me he'd have to ecto-fumigate and so i had to take a cab up to the bronx. i picked up a pafflet of zeppelin crisps, vowing to get at least something out of this malarkey, dropping the aforementioned pafflet but momentarily in order to dodge a beam of projectile vomit emanating from guy fieri's restaurant. sitting on a pigeon at the park, i again attempted to make sense of the situation:
he was shambolic, or bucolic, or maybe he just had colic. he'd spiked my mind with time drugs, and i was having trouble tinkling pretty. i had to hocus, or i'd farnsworkxqtz. i was absolutely certain of this as i rebuilt the thought (actually a psychoatomic barrier maze) in my thought bucket, flicking a timecube off my shoulder like pat robertson dying on the crapper. but the point is, do you think my shoes are pretty?
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