This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
Beyond the infamy of Crete stood an island wrapped in brittle womb, sunken pillars no more nourishing than spoiled innards of the cow. Drizzled with "wow-sabi" cream.
Guy-talian Fondue Dippers
Baked as born, cold and black, a twisted bread so wrapped in flesh distended from the souls of gluttonous bathers and thrust into the ichor of provolone, to wail and burn anew. It's "sauce-ome!"
Righteous Rojo Rings
Prevaricators and erotic actors stuffed to agony on the tangy discharge of these malignant hoops. So sup Achilles, both nurtured and cursed by Chiron in thine evil, a turgid rojo ring which weeps a dipping sauce you can take straight to the bank, hombre!
Who games, and dissipates his property, spitted and roasted slowly, a dismal chorus rends the air. Linger not or slip down into their pit and so among them drown in fetid lagoons of dying humors named by some Guy's blue-sabi sauce.
Brutha's Badass Caesar Salad
So Ovid, Plato and those denied witness to Christ's ascension at Calvary, inhabit a limbo of rock bread, lettuce and curdled milk to be tempered with the fresh-crushed liquor of a carrion worm and transported in a vessel of beetle-gnawed rind.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
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