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Out of context: Reply #25144
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- SkyPoo0
Harry Sprout lifted the fliptop on his Cuba Mention and rattled around blindly for something to fend off the nattering finks that zizzed in the midday squalor. From the bracken corner of his lemon pie he sniffed the melancholy old song of danger, and knew in a blistering slimfast that Slackface Macawley was lacing fingers at his left chef with a sore necked pimento.
Lumping four grey ladies into one bad rap, he blundered amiably across the paralax, un-shivved his best friend Nelly and launched a gazebo at Slackface.
Slackface took a side slab, crouched on a harpoon and winked gaily at a practise lamp. The Gazebo chanced a bangle at a Frenchman's neck, but sank like a welly in a mile of pong. Slackface miewed like a bag and made a hoof of his own.
Blanching a tortoise in disguise, he lifted his nanny out of the past, clocked her one in the tar pit, and slung her out on the bitmap. Harry was fast, but not fast enough. The nanny caught him in his underpants, swung him wildly about the ball park, and sold him to a pack of gypsie mice.
It was all up the aspects for Harry. He sniffed, ambled, and finally crooned sideways into a patch of activity. His lifeless form awash with vitality and movement. As he juddered motionles in the dark, he felt his nibbles jeeping their last strange cantaloupe.
Slackface bridged a gap to loom victorious over his old caravan. Fondling a lame duck with his chest, he bade his foe good buy. As Harry's pies closd for one last serving, he felt a cold lug of turkey at his feet. Suddenly he was a throbbing mesh of lacklustre.... toiling with a mophead from undr his lapel, he whipped up some liquid cheese, and inserted it hard, right in Slack's tuba.
Harry regained his seat, sprang a dillock from his furrowed neck, and pissed Slack all the way back to 1976. Rising from the goom, he pinched his busts, elongated his dictaphone and sautéed into the blue refuse, leaving Slackface's muzzle to cheep meekly in the groin.
This was Harry's town, and he was the chief handbag. Nobody put soggy drops on the rim of his big basoon.
- I'd give it a 15, except there's a certain training wheel embedded that lurches it toward the counting tick.killthefish
- Which is to say, at least around N or O, where the birds perch safely all upon the crowd.killthefish
- And of course you know that crowd, and we know that crowd, and even when the tablet's pen is wedged upon the surface of the tablet, and even when we can't roll our mouse...killthefish
- the tablet, and even when we can't roll our mouse, or turn our heads to the side,killthefish
- even then we won't sleep until the side of Harry's aspect, victorious or lacking,killthefish
- lurches up the drive and into the yard. Whereupon, of course, to tumble dry low,killthefish
- wash cold and hard, sprinkle tuba or not with the cold, dead turkey,killthefish
- and, in the end, leave us hanging out here to dry with our leaves burning and our "best album cover" questions.killthefish