Tuesday, November 11, 2008

You do feel reckless undergoing these transcriptions.  Don't you.  They're nothing to worry about.  Every word is pronounced phonetically, like this, ahh.  Now you're getting it.  Time?  Yes, let's.  On to the lesser arachnids, their young and old.  Some animals.  I mean, SOME animals.  Society of Moray Eels.  I'm told we're not aloud, nor are we allowed.  But hey, that isn't my concern.  Who'd like to join me in fulgurating?  The glaring oversights soon to be committed by our loved ones are almost an excuse for worshipping at the altar of interstate commerce.  I know you've heard it before, but that doesn't stop you from balking at the notion that everything you've ever learned about animal husbandry was handed down by people who really shouldn't have been entrusted with your education to begin with.  One of them is named Rob, and another is calm to the point of absurdity.  One is too cool for words, another is a wed mother, an innkeeper, a bat breeder and a wig maker.

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