Mr. White, you feel so gummy now, with all that hungry muscle, don't you? I can tell. I've been to the party. It's keen, but girly. I've seen the toiling crane, bunching hustle venture wild, prune if by jelly, cloying boisterously beyond unguided view. I've torn balloons from their necks by chilling kites wryly, wrapt in blender, knowing your mother's toast. There are centuries there, and only Angela can bend the grifting humble, not like you and Sam.

Anyways, you remember the fish? Undue Fortune was his name, and he spent wriggling wobblers spinning from their shins, in the cold morgan boing, back when Pop was robbing Bob. He had this pointy thing, and it stuck noisily when it rained. At this time, and Jim can tell you what that ploy tired, Undue Fortune was wrecking his goose while Jim counted the merriment. "I'm going to glow!" shouted the wretched farmhand, gutting pigmies was his due.

Ted stepped back to watch. He was clumping jointly before the court, and seeing as how there were so many cans of rabbits in the balcony, Ted took fruit in one hand, and tied the other to a stool, while veterans watched, limping their gumbled bunkers in hot gravy noise. "I'm so dried I could bleak!" cried Jim. "It's climbing on party!"

Ted was spinning now, chortling munchkins bride nicely, and Angela took moments to view that sordid mirage before making her bath. Uncle Chutney wrenched his Indian friend from behind, and crashed into the glassware shattered blankly, thank you. "Uncle Chutney!" screamed Sam in muddled anguish, "You're plying my gamble!"

Angela poured the wretched pinions into the toiling water, counting the foreign Gibbon with languid fetter. No clam would break in this mucking foil. She remembered her victim. Who could have known, in such phonetic cacophony, the blinding venture, the fancy chair, those little plastic things? It was all tumultuous, like a randy gambler's fish dipper, tuned for the first time to a few queer shepherds in white sauce, if you know what I mean. "I'm going to join a pump, one of these days" muttered the burgeoning girl, and flecks bundled under the mooning hymn in her brief. "I merely ream it." Mr. White, can you envision this stumbling moment? It's all too familiar and carefree.

Suddenly the blending zulu began to shift on its' axis, and fuzzy neckties purged themselves of unwanted floss as the brilliant tonsillectomy glittered choicely upon the wrangling moor. Towers began to crumble upward, and even Jungle Jim was forced to take root in the mottled soil. Somnolent mechanisms uttered their yawning squeals, toying with tickling noise, and Angela splashed in torment. "Get them mollusks in the wagon!" shouted Sam, brittle and humid. His hands were spotted, inkless, gloomy. Could Chutney repair the damage? Only Alice knows.

Undue Fortune ceased his mendless virtue, clammosaurs and boy twinkle, genuflecting for perhaps the first time, as if by rainbow wounded. A look of hue crossed his membrain, cursing his undergarments with rancid fetish. It looked for all the world as if might by nectar driven could in that perilous void begin something altogether binky. Killing that boisterous pie for a moment, the grunting fish confronted that benching fury with regular mention, chewing gladly the bum red walker, his vestigal cow blinded and white in the barning snow. This was the time of noise, Mr. White.

"Get yourselves to the Arches!" bellowed the putrid squab, "All ships delay!" Can you hear the grinding sound, Mr. White? It was so filmy, all rich with decay and brown ointment. Jackrabbits touched under grumble, opening oysters was the dew. Burger fetid chiefly rambled in junkett slew, but nothing blue. And then, when it seemed as if nothing more could append, voicelessly bubbling forth as if to view, broke that rugged clam.

To Be Continued...