Dropping supplies for the troops.
Doing business at the kissing place.
Number negative twoing.
Punishing the rumbles.
Measuring the tract.
Renting space in my guts.
Doing it American Style.
Dancing with the growling tiger.
Blasting down the chow hole.
Taking the one-way street.
Sending presents UPS.
Letting your teeth do the talking.
Testing out your buttons.
Tempting the membrane minotaur.
Spilling produce down the rabbit hole.
Scamming the gall.
Taking in the trash.
Squeezing out the mops.
Sinking the wrong ship.
Cornering yesterday's biscuit.
Forgetting what it means to be hungry.
Lingering in the larder.
Choking out Gandhi.
Screaming through the specials.
Stabbing the torso from the top.
Getting even with the pharaoh.
Brandishing the bog filler.
Stalking the devil's pantry.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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