Alas I learned, o my darling Messerschmidt, that shooting laser beams inside buckets of cheese does not in any way improve the piquancy of the flavor.
Picaresque perhaps, but not piquant, “The New Adventures of Don Quixote in Cheeseland” fails to realize its intellectual potential, as the resurrected knight spends most of his time jousting with giant windmills made of cheese.
You know, Odaenathus, I was chaffering with a street-dealer this morning, trying to return a pair of green swimming trunks that gnawed at the insides of my lily-white thighs like a pair of little baby crocodiles when, yesterday, I went for an innocent dip in the zoo’s baby crocodile pool.
The cat is licking my toes while I attempt to use the word coulisse in a sentence; naturally I’ve found dirty pictures of hairy men and hairless women on a google image search while endeavoring to define the word; I have also reconsidered the day’s pedicure appointment.
I’d always thought argosy had a flowery rosiness to it, as of wine crushed from red petals, or perhaps that its etymology could somehow be traced to the oceanic depths of the Argonautica, lurking among the neon electric eels that curl up inside dark sea caves, but it seems I was mistaken.
