Pure Garbage

Let me write some pure garbage. I have permission.


The swine were spelunkering in yellowed modules when a frontal lobe fired, basking on a frozen beach, far from the perfunct and ravage of nocturnal snookers. Tiny monkey man, jovial, and jaw-hammering, crossed a cake walk while needle toothing infant Molly walking with a spineless banjo and 13 prestidigitators manifesting orange spires noticed only by the wayward hyenas, who slurp cheezy bark nostrils, all furry and raspberried. The raspula was ground down, into jello, the norq was Oliver's brandy, a fine fumarole spouting only at the king tide, ankled down by brambles and foamy-mouthed hounds. Oh Yellow meadow, glory in the mane, frolic shall your progeny inherit. And frolic will their leotards and daffodils underwrite. Down to the smallest dollar.

Change back guaranteed.