There is a new movement happening, and dammit, the people need to know about it.

The New Movement

There are not these particular apostrophies that people see. There are not the goatesk salads of what we once called forward to do our gangreen like situations for all of the St. Petersburgian's that might have prospered in the wake of the anti-canadian wars of 1462, and the rice-a-rony commercials made popular in the 1980's. We are not foul creditors of the union of Encarta like beings. The Record testimony that has come to radiate itself in our small cathederal of peanut butter love has come to flaunt and taunt the likes of all that walk the plains of po-chang. Po-chang. Wow. I am baffled beyond all recognition at the presence of such a word in all of it's plain meaning and literaturical maniacism. I am not one to pry, but that is not of human origin. I want to take it to the lab for further testing. The Pepperchini's and the crayons have not begun to molt for the evening yet so that gives us forty-two point three four seconds to activate our anti-Chelsi Clinton packs so as to create a non-penetrable shield of small reindeer and children of different nationalities, that all speak fluent martian. I want to be able to tell the grandkids that there aren't any more of the flatulence to play with, because they're aunt ate them all, and that the small pedestrians of the subterranian charismatic tracks of Britain have not yet had to surrender they're TP. Nobody has clean hands in this matter. Not one Catholic. Not one Jew. Not one Pre-historic Cave Man of irrationally phillonious colors and markings that depict scenes of lawn mowing and elderly herding that took place in that corner of time, only to evolve into tatoo parlors and nursing homes in the coming centuries. Look no further for the rice and beans of the twenty-second sentury. Nobody should have to put up with the potatoe chips sleeping in the bed of rice-crispy island with the gynocological self-awareness that most two year olds have in the matter. I would like to make it clear, that under no circumstances is anyone to move they're left buttock, as all left buttocks are wired to a giant clock that will release flatulance of a great magnitude on the moving of a left buttock. Don't pretend you don't know about the ray-men and the pubic invaders of Chili and Brazil. Nobody likes the pieces of cheese that play cards in your underwear when you're not looking. I'm not one to brag, but I do like to watch a good card game in a pair of underwear, especially when there's cheese involved. So as to the clue of where the horticulturalists have gone into hiding, I have no idea. I do know however about the small penguin that was seen leaving the white house oval office last week following a mass cigar delivery. Could there be a possible scandal with the penguin? Should we be investigating? Hmm....Nope. We need to do the laundry so that the Palistenians have clean shorts. There aren't going to be any herpes for the Japanese tonight. For a fact, everyone in the great state of Antartica has the genital lice and a small tobogan in place over the gaping hole of africa. Please do not be offended. You have a small poo stain on your right shoulder. It seems to be moving up to your face. If one was ambiguous, they would go hence forth to a doctor or physician and see about removal of such an item. For the foulist monkies of the carpet and wall, I say this: None is truely a belly button until it has been sucked by a small pidgeon of wild tangent colors. I would like to spray myself with juice now. I shall find a skunk and play with its bolognia before I go to bed in my sour cream filled laundry tub. Don't worry about the ham, it will find blankets for itself. I have trained it to be skilled in the arts of opening cabinets and turning on light switches. It's also skilled in Tai-Kwon-Do, Ju-Jit-Su, and Kung-Fu, as well as American salt and pepper boxing. If everyone took the time to be as precicely careful as the mothers of the lawn gnomes, every ham would be happy. I don't feel that it is rational. I don't feel that my armpits smell of a breezy aroma of soft carrots and witherspoon breif, but of a small dogs dirty anus and a carrot that has been used one to many times as the dildo of a large blue female pig. Can we do it? Can we molt the island of spanking delight and sophisticated pubiology? No. We cannot. We cannot play with the fields of green liver onion and the great baked pies of small birds and grey squirming things. I feel alone.

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