A number of hellbent underbelly rectangles help burden health food retailers just trying to make a decent living for once in their lives. They tell about an ungainly appearance stemming from a tinkerer who mandates that we “belt out the checkers, belt out the checkers,” while convenient end-of-weekend towel boys spell constant effortless tabernacle choirs in the moonlight. Well, we know however you dip the bell jar gasket, it invariably holds sentimental value for the bold-faced pumpkin monger who dices mosquito nets like there’s no tomorrow for their kind. Time cards replete with hummingbird moccasins file under federal standards, just like everyone else.
Even if I do regain the use of my arms, I don’t think they’ll function the way they used to. Thanks a lot, guys.
WHARVED 