glucose fructose syrup

A tremulous jamboree: my iced coffee is waiting at the McVerzel station. I asked the coffeemongers to calculate my whizbang factor today, but I was busy with other ordinates and abscissions: did the leaf just stay on the tree or was it a homily? Truly, like some factored antennule of some robotic insect god I had a fervent request that had probably been lost in the queue: my cheese lost, my neckerwrights sandwashed, the color of fury seeping into the undergarments of suspicion, was I not about to take my corpuscles down to the beach and observe to efflux of fauna and flora during the tidal excesses? Blast! Not another cyclical enjambment of retold stories and carbonated fury. It's for this reason that the monsters of the lost land never return Henry Haschgellester's calls. I'm sure the futuristic cell phone marimba stories might be redressed if the unfactored supply of inert primes was to broadcast on a station that's well known. But scoring someone's probability toast like that might just give Ol' Hastoffle a case of the mighty indigestion: what was more important, the ellided material or the signal to noise ratio collecting nutsgooses on the corner of the river. Did Vazbolb Struggins not semaphore furiously during the end of the Ryvgahelis Campaign? Mutter me another way Miss Muskwaray, for I hadn't seen the telegram at the office and my radio batteries had suffused throughout the lower stone chasm of the nightgaunts.

If Chollongster had been present, I'm sure she would have quoted us a number of cheesy soliloquies and other symposia and consortia all in timbral harmony. Chollongster, of course, usually has nothing to do with us, calling us voozblongs and lumpgossuwongs, nasty epithets just designed to hurt where it hurts the most: in the inner mandibulae of our spleens.