Whenever Wichita bends backward

it behaves like an affidavit marked for

a crystal ablution. Own the kickoff,

polarograph the bazaar. Puddingstone

pairs subtly with compulsory absenteeism.

The grist in the gristmill is radioactive.

The regulations have been drug backward

into the butt-kicking tornado that Jessie

said was Vacationland.


Whenever the keg misses us, our Christian

accents and heterogeneity intrude like an

Ellis Island Yorkshire Terrier that's yapping like a

Buddhist seminarian gone all contrafibularity

on us. Count the cartwheels, the marijuana is

crane, like Vince Lombardi foul mouthing

a crew of sunshine sea crap.


Whenever I'm by the road I buy a cockcrow,

breathing a sigh of relief that I live in the U.S. of

A. My bodyguard tells me there's an abyss

that all the bile in Italy couldn't misogynist. It

runs the gamut, buzzing mystery & ampersand

cupcake chatter. The harangue here registers on

the seismograph, bestirs the picnic in the

cloakroom faster than an ecclesiastic sandwich

(quit sneezing).