Sliced pork wasserschlafts, striding unguently abarft the beams of a slissandic seaborscht, where a maiden America slaunters rage-eyed up garblage ladled bleachheads. Shave your moneygrams, horde your hordes of horehound horrors, put a bucket under the spot where the sealing dribbles. A bottus of brown hail goes down gullet strewthly. Bus thee from whalewinds, stir-blanking and multitasking. So out went the handle and we were left drunkling.