No moisture could be found in this tremulous placenta.Only Angela had the shivers to compel phlegm from jungle rubber to Uncle Chutney. What happy apple, tumbling noisily down the great white knuckle, in all it's vestibule,could count on Angela to render noses edible in cheese splinter.The very thought! Some mad taxi dancer thought of that one, Mister White.

Her pumpkins glowed in mystic viscosity. She told Sam that televison was granted maximum. Grunted Sam, "Junk mart registry! Better dunk matter in cheese spread!"

Angela glowed happily, gleaming in the scuttled view. "Is this some breadwalk?" Sam could only hold his budge; he knew what flosculous dirge beheld.(Just the gruel to eat cheese with, eh Mr. White?)

Anyways, so on and so on, here comes Jungle Jim in his Ford Typhoon. "Hey,Angela! What's the father of your venison?" Everybody laughed. Only Ted, the humpback youngster with the fishy mouth, held his fist in vacant amusement.He knew the rock of Sam could only hold so vetch wrinkle. Angela would see the granite oyster shine beyond any mountain goat-hopper.

Are you listening Mr. White? This is the bread part. Clam your tie and swallow. Now wait for the cloister. Yonder candle is flamed in ignition, and the belly of your sister poses in bumblebee view. A tic-like substance oozes from the candleabra, and the night's vision regulates that spent knob. NUMBCHUCKS! Isn't Jenny your tidier antelope? I sure would.

To Be Continued...