I see it now like the blind man who came here to read. He saw.

My brain registered dead today. On a richter scale, 4-days ago, after hearing a big earth, cells began to quack wide open. I have shifted back to a prey-Teen-age, again.

Thanks to rye-boy Mr. T.

Willy T may wear a no-sleeve T-shirt. Okay, he gives excellent advice for the entire Salon's holy membership. The stingy must begin to pay the Tithes, shave underarms, and for the salvation of democracy, please gargle after consuming garlic aphrodisiacs.

Also: If you want a real Poofters, stop being like a big boy Bluto.

Olive, Holly, Kim, Susan, and all "peculiar" (beautiful word in the original root) Introverts (too long of a list. to names them woulds bloat a gentle ego and ruin a particular virtue--keep them humble and in the kitchen ?) are NOT wanting boys who perpepepery lust. Screechy voices are scary in this blog tunnel.

Miss America's here want Lottery winners, Edsel's, gnashes, vv vans, and Buick's with a Walter reed mattress. They dont like dun-kin doughnuts or lattes and they play the power-ball lotto.

They want to know who won the world series in 1948. They ask W.T. to buy everyone a tanning bed. 'Um want noble peas in butter with eatable pods for b-fast. Give them all Oscar's, trolley's, and free bus rides. Or, a pair of jet ski's ticket to San Fran (boy or girl) [~!~} to see fat basters nicknamed, rusty nasty-Nascar.

I like when women spit out the scroll--TM. chew tobacco. Please hock the wad into the holy newspapers. Roll it into a softball. Throw it at the blogs author.

When the Sunday organist makes a flock feel passionate, each person can turn around and shake hands like you know how to milk a cow. If buzzards begin forming a circling motion overhead, preparing to arc-dive, sit at the meeting house and speak in "strange tongues." The glossolalia speakers are Jewish Pentecostals?

Shake every bodies cat and dawg's paw too. Prey fur pets. W.T.'s advice from-off his Goodwill T-shirt and fedexed via the P.R.'s pub-relaxation law-firm:

ONLY (caps to help those blind as a rt-Binge drunk buzz-head hair-cuts on slugger-ash-H {.} ball-bat, pinch-hit, walk, or bunt with a blunt. hint)

ONLY REAL LOSERS WOULD READ BLOGS ON WEEKENDS WHEN NOT AT GOVERNMENT JOBS FOR "INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES." TO READ ON SUNDAY IS A MORTAL "sinful" CRIME. GO TO A SINAGOG OR SIT IN A PILE OF POO LEFT OVER AT THE PUB'S FROM A PEW CHARITABLE RUBBISH GRANT PILE. TOREAD A MESSAGE LIKE THIS PROVES WE ARE WASTING TOO MUCH TIME AND THERE IS GRAND JURY EVIDENCE TO PROVE WE ALL ARE VERY STUPIN BAKIN' ROBBIN' BASKITT CASES. tease.

I say we allow sysprog's talents to extend. He hammers like a tin smith in a gold jewelery shop. It's a Alleluia dance. It's a twist and shout. It's loud as a howl from a good rock and roll stud donkey, named L.W.M.

His toot makes the ears pop-up and we perk-up as if anonymous who flirts here, need a Northern moose with red lipstick? Others remind me of days of yore/lure when a skull goblet was the goblet for gold intoxicants carry along canters.

I got so much on my mind my motor seems to have stalled. Maybe I'll come back. Often I leave here in a mood: Dem pissers all want Pulitzer's and want to cha-cha with gals or guys or El Cid...

We say, "GONE!" And try to find a bandage for our boo boo's moo, moo, tweety Dee Dee dilly dally here all day...NO!. I gotta giddy on a horsey. Da heel with ya. Stomp ot in a frizzy hiss fret...shad up! okay. I'll sip on the lip of insanity and be back? apologist for the kin-insane..

Amen. amen. Sela. thanks. a delicious bow or bowl of hot cabbage broth soup or a dish of cold nutritionist's best holy cole slaw of a door prize. Awe.