•While crazy John, the curmudgeon, puts car mud on his dirty sorry face, to protect it from the sun, and other cars as well, we were having breakfast with cherries and red bull. You'd think he was a disfunctioning traffic light in a coal mine , but it was him. Tßsssssßssssßsss. Oh, there's his mother, the steam engine. Bet his father was that steam engineer called the crocodile? No, his father was as cactus called Nono. Like the famous composer. That's why, one day, he plastered his head with a kind of sticky tape that was so resistent they had to take the skin from his scull. When he left the hospital, all he could think of was death. During the night he drinks but the farts he lets out are ultimately sobering for our neighbours. Doesn't he want to kill himself? With these farts probably, yes, although he himself calls it most splendid art. The most indeed! As for loudness and stinking. I recently saw these four Atlas rockets on a carriage in the parking basement. And I tend to think he defecated them somehow. Nobody seems to mention them, though meanwhile everybody thinks they're not in a safe place this way. You know, these dogs just leave them but never take any responsibility! But they're only "TURFS"! Turfs may be contaminating won't they. I use them for my plants. There you are! They aren't even depleted!
•HOW LOW can you go, twisting through the floor, right into the pool underneath Miss Bratwurst's House in New Orleans?!
•I don't know, maybe I'll just stick to my guts. Elvis left the building anyway. Rather selvis to sell such vis.
•Seeweed would be my suggestion.
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