Nimbletown Reels From Sod Demographic Intention

Secondly, I am not crazy, and it has been proved. The IQ has been clocked at 150 and if anything this level of intelligence is clearly above my own head, wrapped in silver glitter and loosed upon the unsuspecting contingent of populace platter and that’s the Daily Special. Pop rop top-a-dop doo diddly won, won tonnage frommage from the mage and say halo to gold energy. And this will not be understood for some time, and obligations as such require diligent postings but for the day seventh. And oh, pop the rocket, for where there is souffle, there is surely rotten egg. And by this I mean to say there was a shining light in this town of greatness when first I eyed upon it, but then came a heavy, something once pristine now vexed and hexed and foul and mean, rotted, from the inside, even after the clean-up type of thing.

In the commercial where Al Franken was the Stuart Smiley of the right I cued up Triumvirat’s “The Burning Sword of Capula” backwards at 78 and saw the Anti-Ba’al. I also heard about Michael Crichton and remember the original “Andromeda Strain.” I also wait for the “High School Musical” hit to become “College Drama.” I also rain tears of real remorse for the death of “King of the Hill,” remembering the real Garland, Texas and the alley behind the Kraft plant. Here’s your long shot, lone scavenger—harbinger mariner positor ferrier. Shims be living large in the hollowed-out cavity of the young cur, cusp and cuspy Sir Cuthburt. Absent-minded oft-reminded duly-kinded leather-binded coffee-grinded lucky-finded maverick sauce.