Shyster
Was oil? Was it swapped often. Was the id. Was the id in the dump. Was the oily fur assulted once too often. Was the oil interleaved with the sorrow. Was the fluffiness like death. Was the dump only a memory. Is the fur a device to be destroyed in bitter grief. I will rejoice with the transsexual fur. Will I assult you with the interleaving grub. Will the id of the fur be opposed to the deformed fluffiness of the rusty rage. Will the configuration of our genitalia be swaddled in a plastic device. Was slippery oil on the transsexual fur. Can you interleave my memory with your hidden root. Will what is in the wasted box perish. Alleluia! Will you swap the plastic for the eaten device. The Lord be with you. The Lord will be with you. The Lord is with you. Is the id of the Resurrection deformed. Who will oppose the black lung of my being. Is the oozing root in the dump of hell. Is memory rubberized in the box with others. Was oil wasted on the head in the box. May I eat the gnarled trite root. Will we ever eat grub again. Will the blood in the veins of the stars fall out of the sky, for I am a swollen roseate anus, a sluggish twinge strewn about, flush with the sawdust mucus that meddles with a nimble ruby cunt. Will we swap what has been wasted and eaten. Was the fluffiness of oil interleaved within the swapped memory of the hard-nosed latex. Ram my thin vulnerable veil of skin if our dumpy sub-contract is stinky. Decode my hole, smoky fire, flickering light. Has our id been deformed forever. Was what was wasted fur. Will the devious memories of others be only a device. Will what is swapped be forsaken. Will you eat the feathers of the transsexual's eyelid id. Will the id be opposed to the deformed sub-contract in the gutter. Will the grub in the box be interleaved with the leaves of memory. Will the transsexual gnaw on the fake waste. Will the hard-nosed assault be nothing but damp fur to the oily eye of the broken-necked owl. Was the root device a hidden whole. Was the box wasted. Fuck it up into my soft spot a little harder. Will the fluffiness be totally forgotten in the grubby box. Will we eat the deformed transsexual's interleaving sub-contracts down in the cellar. Was the memory of the fur-lined box opposed to the deformed streamers screaming Bon Voyage. Rant and vent, bitch, with all the angels, for I am the bread of death, the ego-ace plopping puke down the streaks of your jockstrap -- rabid asshole -- bark and squirt it off: sac, tube, butt, tote, mutt, totem scrotum, tar-turd lard, loosely suckled spokes, icicle mercury, "missal" silo, IV'd dwarf knuckles, porky dork, piping towhee, shyster. --Bob BrueckL (some words appropriated from Jukka-Pekka Kervinen's "self test"
