by Uncle Chutney
Now Mr. White, don't go boyish on me. I know you've seen some ribbons, but hunk your crevice for a moment, and let this French killer bound doggish oil. You plunking yet?
Yes now, back to the clam. Coil and stew, the clam wrapped acrid placemats in the virgin bog. Name had it not, but Buster dubbed it "Thingfellow." Angela had been oinking her belly when the matter crabbed upwards, and vanquished all the cattle she could grant. It came as no surprise therefore, when the carping jury pounced from umber ashtray, cracking undulent Thingfellow in a fencing pry, and or because etc. What a candy clam!
It was too late now, thought Sam, crunching his button friendlessly. "Will this spoil your cue?" Angela dropped her face clownishly, and plugged in supple ray. "It's no kidney, Sam. I can only kill you later." She grieved a chunk, and slipped sideways. "Buck my bunnies! Poster child of the Orient!"
Though cracked, the clam remained indigent, clinking impishly with spotted rocket. Waxing umbilical, Thingfellow revealed his muck: "Obsequious reptile!" spattered the clam. "I've awakened! It's my junky spew!"
Mr. White, you may decline to review this quell, but chance it happened, yonder clam was raging at you! What?! Didn't you know about the Viceroy? Legend has it, upon the rousing of The Clam, all sprockets would gather jet pillars in flaming pie, and the Mighty Bench would kick the mustard. This is, in fact, what happened.
Chapping plaster bathmats tumbled high upon the rousing stool, grating their melt whip clobber in random chill. Oily maggots gathered lice in periwinkle, trapping the vandalous avatar in hypnotic fly. Sam stood branching, as his mention plundered. Angela blasted backwards, dreaming of varicose veins, and piled her toys indefinitely.
Chutney rubbed his muffin, wishing for plaster in wax mandibles. Undue Fortune was nearly fried by now, and fled kissing in victorious grudge. Jungle Jim, who brained himself on a spoon, cried out in vex migraine "Jolly Polly Whistles! That's my last elbow!" Only Ted, who was eyeing the apprehensive Cloister, hat in grey, remained lick ignition. He was waiting for the clam to boil into a princess.
But it was not to be, for suddenly, in a binging master, the grunt my junkie reptile tumbler in cashing fancy, with pendulous opium, flicked wet and swampy, and gesticulated in languish meat coil, which bent all the floss into shiny bottom, humming underbelly, mumbled plunder. In a few spanking moments, all the monkeys cluttered up and twinkled out of sight. Angela sighed wimpishly. It was over.
The End