Two word story

[Swatopluk]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone

[Opsa]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them

[Opsa]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage

[Opsa]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.

[Bluenose]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking,

[Bluenose]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking, for cauliflower

[Opsa]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking, for cauliflower deposits in

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking, for cauliflower deposits in Eastern Tazbekistan

[Opsa]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking, for cauliflower deposits in Eastern Tazbekistan had threatened

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking, for cauliflower deposits in Eastern Tazbekistan had threatened to out-perform

[Opsa]

       
Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking, for cauliflower deposits in Eastern Tazbekistan had threatened to out-perform Argon's harvest

[Griffin NoName]

Chapter Seventy-two

It has been foretold that Emilio would eventually ascend to the rank of Major General in the novel army model used by neo-Cromwellian upstarts in Tibet. Purple Chinese lanterns adorned the temple of Argon Arc Welding the shiny and tempestuous Spark God who held a professorship at ITT Technical College Lumpazi campus. Their pale, beyond which troglodytes hid, was interrupted by streaks of bright and nearly blinding welding sparks but Emilio could not return. His unexpected expulsion meant nothing to Argon, who continued to paint his fourth wall with invisible baby lotion. That unfortunately caused the slippery floor to dissolve in a froth of santorum and flood the recording studio below.

When the police picked up acetylene torches to dry some rather unpleasant smelling stacks of dead rats, the dynamite exploded ruining Emilio's intricately crafted devious plan to overtake Argon's golf cart. Too many golf hooligans rode through, totally destroying all eggplants but no giant redwoods or ladybirds armed with iron dentures. Rhubarb leaves (carefully pulped) covered every inch of the longline bra worn by Argon's electric wife imitator bot which tried new alluring techniques to mitigate its lack of success with eyebrow pencils. That turned ugly when spinach growers plastered their antechambers with photos of Hedonism Bot, but Emilio's selection of solvents quickly lightened their loafers.

There, consequently, was a glut and a half of ugly leathery swimsuit models with shiny white fangs ($2.5 apiece for the set at Denture Mart) that hung around Argon's welding emporium and golf pro shop. They didn't want to seem desperate so they pretended that they had rich boyfriends with fast cars arriving after the big race.  This fooled the next cartload of welding golfers who didn't mind paying tuppence for their autographs, being models. No-one knew who had hidden the olive stones in Mrs. McGregor's* garden, although Peter the Medium Sized Rabbit and Flopsy, his hyperventilating sister, and Sergio Volpone were spotted digging them out of the cabbage martini olives.  Brassica mining, or fracking, for cauliflower deposits in Eastern Tazbekistan had threatened to out-perform Argon's harvest of blue