🚀 go-pugleaf

Zanre knows 'er bloody shelves, I suppose.  And the tone of it all,
quite the shame, to (re)consider athwart a lovertical shades (HI)story,
sad, the bartender scened it all before into teleplays earning royalty
archequeues for BBC tentertainments with their spoofy-spontaneous
riffs well-designed for hooks from above.  "C'mon, you can do it."
And, to top(sy) it (f)all(ow) off(ending article shall cease NOW),
it would seem admist the auditching (very, very nice, indeed), I made
the syntactical error of pins-&-needleesrting a word not native to that
Grolious Stone, a lithium test which never stoppledestrian her, no,
not even in unctious gleanings of praise (the insertions of which
and my coming to grips in fabricating their placement are two quite
different things, as you surmise) for her blasted-yet-still-she-could-
care-less dancing partner.  So, as I promenade limpedly towards the
formaldehyde craps table, making certain to avoid remaining but briefly
under the balconied railings so as to not be showered with whatever
tidbits have been left out from the wedding reception's table-treats,
quickly describing a hyperbola for the nice man who failed math,
being told by omniscient voiciferous boastings that that is indeed
the incorrect answer, which is only embarrassing as the nice man who
failed math cannot fail to hear them too (siren-lyke, I should add)
and yet he does the polite thing and pretendencies not to notice,
which results in his being struck by balled-up leaflets from the
Mollusk Infrastructure (which, to be precise, is what I confused the
Roinn Oideachais with (as well, of course, as my H.)).  I see that
Moody has made the inevitable appearance on the HISTORY list (they're
a little slow, but that's ... okay); I change my mind about one of the
provisions and, requesting the sound of your voice for accompaniement
(sic), I jig gruesomely.  What kind of music would you like, my love?
Having silenced you, I find no alternative but to leave, dropping my
assignature on the guest-book on the way out.

Consider: though I am honored and obeyed (oops oop oo o) to have you
make an assumption of me -- actually consider me, no less! -- I must
stand by my honor-&-obey (rather flimsy things they be) and suggest
that you account for one of the Mayor's whims -- o, but it's your
town -- and reconsider the rumismatics as follows:

by yr leave: 22:18:00 GMT, departs.
             22:19:24 GMT, arrives @wherever <a-hem> (actually, 22:19:17,
                very close; do you monitor that, too?).
             22:20:24 GMT (approx.), M. finishes digesting the most
                sacred recreclivities of the woman who has been occupying
                an unhealthy amount of what passes for his thoughts
                ("that's not company time, now, there, lady(PB-neutral),
                is it?").
             22:23:22 GMT, state's evidence B (and, now, for subtraction:
                23:22 minus 20:24, by the hum of the microchip, comes
                to two minutes fifty-eight seconds, quite short of the
                four (4) minutes that you calculate; I of course know
                full well that it's microchip H270's fault, her general
                piqued condition at being interrupted resulting in
                her very quick stock answer: don't trust her if you
                have to catch a bus).

This most assuredly affects the division which then follows.  But, also,
consider that, your most cherished thoughts are subject to having been
presorted and filed, before there was a header deserving to carry them;
22:23:22 GMT marks the time that M foolishly undertakes to underhand
back to you; the header remains motionless while the intrepid insipid,
nonetoobright, stretches the cavity of fish, or so she said, as far
as capability portends.  If it makes it any easier, then we may leave
it that M can type 225 wpm indeedy, but slows so that yr message receives
the attention and care that it deserves, though, according to the
minutes, you do not.

It approaches Midnight on the Eastern shore of Old England; she is, if
a good child, well tucked and comforted for the duration of this
rotation; I shall go home now myself and shall rummage without
discretionary aim until she rises to extract the toast and coffee from
the morning; at this point, I shall dutifully collapse, counting
e-sheep and trying to do so without moving my lips.  May her whims be
as frothy as thus far and she allow me her tbc.

M. (I believe that H800 keeps a German-English dictionary in a box of
books labelled "Projects That I Rilly Do Not Intend To Do"; borrow it
from him, or perhaps one of the LIBlads might assist, for I fear I've
forgotten)