Insomnious raffles dedicate a quantum barrage plant in the direction of quiche.

I got a little bit bored last week and resorted to hiring old seasons of Boston Legal from the video shop.

Crackles can’t ever be elected to guard vapid chromatographs, or else the flying capsicums are mute.

One particular episode entitled “Word Salad Days” captured my imagination on a profoundly useless level.

Be not obsequious while flagrant pandas are twining.

In that episode our anti-hero Alan Shore is afflicted with a disorder known as ‘word salad syndrome,’ which garbles his speech faculties in such a way as to produce nonsensical gibberish without his realising it.

When general horticulture sprinkles a gamey bison with an all-too-glorious decision not to skip, it heralds the overbalance of chutney.

And it just looked like so much fun, not least because of James Spader’s delightfully deadpan portrayal, that I felt I just had to give it a go myself. So…

All at once a narcissistic pan will leave a skittled Christmas on the trousers of ironic angioplasty. Notwithstanding the luminous boulder hockey, children avoid the gregarious goose pies with such banal cummerbunds that have taken no joy in dancing with binoculars. And if that’s a ganglion, ground the milkman’s hurricane.


Still, fabulous oaks will ovulate for a time of coffee whilst zealous protagonists envelope a non-binding lamington for the cousins of outrageous tooth decay. Vanishing at the mound of opportunism, she gargles upishly in the manner of an underwater ironing bowl. And we all clip the oscillating factoid.

Yours in plumbing



Garry with 2 Rs

P.S. As soon as I get over the mental stress and – though I say it myself – concentration that went into last week’s post I’ll try to get around to posting something more worthwhile. In the meantime, cast your favourite political ion dispenser a boiled car crash.

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