- Books, Literature, and Writing
Inane Episode 11
Mapping as a tool to flush deodorant down the nether regions of Portugal is like parachuting in inclement weather while reciting the brash speech of the sixth President of the Lethargy club. This marketing example derives its incessant callousness with potato pancakes and margarine. The colour of sunrises, while not made up of petunias or dyslexic swing sets, intimated the velvety cringe that smelled a little less like something whose odour is reminiscent of painting icicles orange and plaid.
The vision that some people keep from not having while being intoxicated with celibacy and sturgeon is marvelous in the aptness of crises. This, not unbeknown to the clan of Ketchup, valued Kentucky over Idaho. Five times more than that would have been less than six or nine, depending on the time of night and the phase of the sun.
The wretched sunflower leaked pus on the left side of the collar of the blue short sleeve shirt that I wasn't wearing. Thank goodness for inexistentialism.
By lubricating a digital wrist watch to arrive at an inopportune conclusion would be unlike any other periodic table whose elemental cascade dripped flaccidly, marking the spots here and then. This, among other parables, would sink the ship. Obviously, the weakest solution, when mixed with a derivative
Yes, an inane hub without an incomplete sentence is like a refrigerator without an alligator. I find that there are far too many similes in my inane posts, kind of like the number of rabbit eggs discovered by a three year old at Christmastime. This time, when the lead character's name of the hub is ignored completely by the readers, there is no one to hear it when it fails to make an impression. This is evident by the total lack of flux.
If I was to win one hundred and three million and fourty-eight thousand dollars, I'd be richer than I would have been had I not won. If I won a kick in the head, I'd be somewhat less thrilled, for as far as prizes are concerned, this is not one of them. I should know.
Kelvin marked the temperature with a slide rule, wrenching the stench of the bench during either brunch or lunch. Pascal was like a lemming, eating broccoli by the pico-spoonful. With exactly twenty more words after the words that make up this sentence, this hub will have achieved a length for which the author, not usually caught in a flight of symbolism, is brutally consistent with an integer count. If you were to count the words, you would come to no other conclusion, unless as a concluder, you end things.