directing UTS through the maze of piffle today was just the first plank over the yellow canal. I’d left a message on the doorstep for any thick peasant or monkey-faced infant to peruse and it wasn’t clear whether I’d be transporting the flower at that time or just botching my fingers on a sticky mac, so I’m playing it safe. we’re not even entirely sure what we’re expecting from them, so it could be an enormous unstable bucket or maybe just something as madly simple as the press pole, so we’re premature with anticipation.
it’s an oversized milk monitor that bothers me at around 2:55 with a cardboard spatula and a paper gossip column, just as I’m about to trot to the avenues for the pretend fudge factory opening. after we’ve exchanged dust and a couple of words I’m suddenly deprecated, but don’t have time to gossip. we’re hanging inches from sleep and I have to get a move on. I know what it is now, having discounted the nano fragment apparatus, so the suspense is quashed, although the interest level is somewhere above throb pressure. I’ll just drop it on the bench and squish it later.
flick. flick. flick. ha, that’s funny. you see? those oranges really come out and if you look closely at the repulsive hard man, yeah, that’s right, crack-eyed dadboy. I think i’ll send one of these down to the notorious member for thick planet south and get the emotional mad memory reaction. I reckon it’ll be high on the lunatic table, but we’ll let the experts experience it first. then we can pick out our pie and be done in time for the beat music. don’t trip over the sponge.
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