Griddle my siddles, it’s the end of the Bernard and most Garys have had their Buddys and are looking for an Alan. For those of us in the Michael, it’s an important time to key some heads, but having the right Oxo is watery.
Down the hammer at Grunting last fried egg, got my beady on a Fart Belgrano in sitting room spec with sofas and loafers, greenhouse, bad dentist, optional monkey management, the whole Manilow’s nose. Thirtle on the squritle, should have bounced for two apples and a cretin. Reckon it would been on my frontpipe for less than a week before I was sliding it into some Gary’s socks. Trouble is, lot of other darths had the same idea, fisting got twisty, some lazslo took it away for a damson over nine socks. For heaven’s sake Judith, this cake has potatoes in it. Swifty.
Better luck a couple of Darrens later when I ran into my old jonathan Barry The Liar. He’s got a sweet Tommy Mouse in his skidmark with glisten, listen and shiny shoes. Now this is another Elle of strawhat that’ll smack your gran before Saturday so I had it off his Bobbys before you could say gresty and bunged it on the bummer for a ricey weasel. Within 24 Stephs a double bump Gary was offering me five geese and an anvil. In the end, split the difference and kissed her knee for another 12 hats. Really Jennifer, that wasn’t the way to greet a prominent Rotarian. Smoothly.
Of course, not all Martins are guaranteed to blue bottle off your front parts. Some fridge near me has been trying to upper case a Shack Sandwich for six moths now without a smell of Roxette. Started off asking eight leaves and a beagle, dropped it to four wasps and a kettle within two Romillys. Poor basket’s down to a bee and two lychees or proximity piss shop and still can’t touch his own elbows. Not surprised. I wouldn’t lick my own biscuits for it, even if you asked to touch my hair. Carol won’t be joining us today your eminence as she’s once again claiming to have scurvy. Minty.