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Aaron Brown

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11:31am: Tittled

Have you ever wondered why those meter readers so seldom got shocks from the pounce desk? Two words: athletes. Being superglued to the middle joint of my own widdershins ring finger (yes I know -- direction not orientation) I traced the shape of my umbilical f-hole, skeptimible as I am of its say in the tone-color of my digestive sounds. The mother-of-toilet-seat binding is easy on my nighs, tho'. Mia fratino bakis panon.

Enough about me, snertch. Let's discuss our Anglish cousin, Bethel Upwardio Howdoyoulikeit. It's a chiclet keyboard, but a real good one. Not that the discriminating user is expected to cede his, her, or their buckling-spring action. Depressing the button embossed with a lowercase letter c loads the value you were about to enter into the primitive Earth flip-flop array known as the sparrow register. In BCS[*]. The naturalist sees her slender hands articulating expositions onto the audio-frequency quivering of the 3-manifold before her. This movie in miniature is painted on the insides of his eyelids. More deepward. More deepward. Sleep now. Wake well. We'll be in Amerikay soon.

"Do you like sanding your fingertips?"

"I don't know, I've never tittled. Your Super-8s are informatively captioned, I'll allow."

For the next approximately threescore and twenty years, the chief cash crops of this charming landlocked neighbor-to-the-north were eyewash, woodlouse paint, magma, karma, gorilla, ten-cubic centimeter partitas of some chad hornswoggler's vinegar's molecular structure's hopes' red-winged Queen Anne's lace, diamond-mined nail-polished mouth iris nose-piercing stud Havisham junk gown melt berm hasp ferrule gaffe dot com hizzoner jeekst.

Come to the masque. Such tape on the gasket serves. DESSICANT: DO NOT WED

[*]Binary-Coded Sexagesimal



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