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I Blew Born-Again Kid's 🧠 with Hindu God Babysitter Stories
Hanuman, Monkey God Finale ...
Kid Snaps out of it.
Begins Yelling, ONLY JESUS.
I said, "Tell 1 Billion Hindus."
And they have a Color Powder Fest (Mom nodded out in bathroom).
Immune to his misogyny, bubble fallout; immune to denial, and to immutable silence -- days he's Groundhogged -- many days before.
Mass Seduction, Fiona Apple's new album 'Bolt.' Cara Delevingne, Backup Vocal | ASMR | Apple and St. Vincent performed together at the Trans-Pecos Festival in Marfa, Texas
To everyone who has listened and loved it thank you 🙏🏻
Doug Meet is f eeling happy with George Dimakis and
19 others at Roman Catholic Diocese of Baton Rouge.
Ryleigh is literally the only wat pissing everyday.
And our 40-year age difference? No match, our appropriation of English; then to subsequent repast--vagely vainglorious, and semi-vaunted status--like the delicacy prepared for us the first time--Kutie Pie (Google it to create a sense of drama), Pan, and other gastronomic rarities, like self-invented Chevaux, which I have been told spare you -- along with other varied viandes from table Doug Meet.
And his lady's whoops, hollers, and the unintentional, potentially dangerous, odd tic, whose sole purpose is to dispose, destroy, so as not have to assess it further action involving jettisoning silverware, followed with fitful fruitatious felicitations, then instantly forgotten.
Though I shall never complain if nary twain meet NZ or US or CT -- I want to introduce her toYo, and Ninja, and Sixteen.
But if none of that comes to pass, I will always have the laughs which I may call up in minutes of sadness, and with gladness, guffaw at Ry and her mum and sister too--a treasure which I hope will stay with me forever.
The vignette plays out quickly and impulsively with no contextual clues, bells, or tells: Ry at a table glugging Patreon, doing a puzzle which she should be muzzled, apropos of nothing, eructing forth with no time to abort--and calling her dad a "hard-on"!
Her mewling, gobsmacking pie-hole giantkiller.
Roastmaster blush invocation behind dais / proscenium, near Dead Baby Jokes, 9/11, and the Aristocrats.
She hopscotches over it.
When Sara Silverman's clout, sardonic trademark, AND sister with causes, stands slowly, silent mischief implied with mouth turnt up corner-wise clunk, mind twerking tunechi.
She proceeds to give slowest of sloth-like ASMR golf claps -- unable to slow it down -- its glacial progress had made its impression, inspiring first, ladies, then gents to follow her lead; in respect and observance of, not her Tourette's, which had never defined her, but her, when in unified perestroika, they raised much needed liquesr to lips ...
Throat is heard clearing, and rising from seat, he begins to toast while coughing, its wheezing made Weezy follow suit, phlegmatic eructations of a productive nature, any host would have valeted Respiratory Therapist, but this was a legend, files crammed full of jokes about Clinton, Manson, and Lindberg.
He was also a progenitor most derelict with the infamy and disfavor to be the person responsible for the despicable and universally repugnant and reviled first of three verboten jokens, unmentionable inadmissables, politically incorrect as to be the example not of it.
A very famous baby, before you were born, was kidnapped, killed and discovered too late by Hoover's Country's first FBI.
Dead Baby Joke almost killed his baby celebrity and career, until the most famous man in the world for aviation, good looks and money, Charles Lindberg, heard of his gaffe and welcomed him to his home, still protected by Feds, for drinks, whereupon he shyly admitted the toll, the notoriety, and public adoration, and sympathy had taken more than a one-man non-stop flight across the ocean, if not for him and his joke that night to enact something weak he had only just contemplated ending it all.
When he realized all of the sympathetic faces were for him, and no one to speak of, he realized every man's good, kind, base and vile.
And the face of the man who'd been sentenced for murder, Hoover's collar, but G-man got it-- confession was more fable gone astray, when one second later a monster is sentenced to die, but he cried, and monsters, he'd said, did not cry.
To the Comedian of the Year, whose fight with what we do complain, made laughing more thrilling with ODB illin', and word phrasals slay tropes or puns, a level not gauged nor graded, but Gov overseen in tribute to her, no laughing matter, a Military Ranking, whose brass not yet tarnished stated to those whose lead was their duty and honor to obey, by the time her career had only just started, Ry outranked Patton whose 4-Letter archive though profligate dunning, its effectuation, soldiers say, should you catch a day when something went wrong in the War Room or Mess, if it were to you his words he'd address, bight down on the capsule kept close to the pocket, one soldier fainted, went AWOL, but the meanest one whose consequence had not shuffled off with a pule or a tear, with a view and appointed cedar, the plaque on the door, you've noticed before, says "Chaplain," Patton was called by Caesar, Napoleon, from Egypt to Africa, to Antietam, but never before had his curses called Jesus, who'd answered not him, but trauma he caused to one of his men.
the service of making anything which requires horsemeat, Ostrich, or other dining dishes not normally seen including those rarities of the kiwi palette mostly meat or crushed with a mallet, the phallic sea clam clade is it, tits up and buried but like pulling up dildos will make us ululate merry. Ry and I should have a field-day digging and looking for their little oxygen bubble-ups before scooping them into a basket and HOME for a meat main course of Chevaux quenelle au poivre barnacly cousins whosetrick is to stick and to stick where it will cut you to evict them. whiskered clams bivalves NZ delicacy, records in her favorite dive's jukebox, but instead.
Its just to her school friend, and her Dad, sis, and Mum.
And as Phillip Larkin said in This be THE VERSE this high-IQ TourettesTeen lest you think me be rude, is so self-aware that it is refreshingly instructive to me and my own personalities. We both have in common an aversion to frustration.
The Kiwi Mom's Mabley, or Red Foxx working blue--benign, obstructive, instrusively spoken cave spelunking in search of an f-word: ribaldry unbidden from deep brain issue--profane and pristine;
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f eeling happy with George Dimakis and 