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The synopsis of my synapse is that language is for deviants, ne’er-do-wells that label the agility bunny a sloth in heretic’s clothing. Mormon sacrifices are required for the incantation of heavily armed sarcophagus inhabiters to become drenched in philosophy handles and still have enough lethargy to subscribe to the innate idea that stuttering Peruvian trilobites can be heard reciting the sacred verses of Telletubbial ubiquity if a blood-curdling mammary stethoscope is properly employed. More often than not, it’s the mortar board chemicals that cause bestiality to become more pronounced than a limerick at an enunciation party, rather than the perverse mellow-drama that is the modern colonoscopy. This, the infinitesimal undercurrent of bipolar, bipedal byproducts to enhance your life is only a dream, sonny, so make the universe your only fishing instructor, and time your only slapstick interval thermometer, dude.
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