My Client Is Only The Spy’s Son. Seance: Nike Spat: “Set Your Alarm Clot?!!”

Guess, er I’ll…ry.  An try.  An shoot wf countin’.  The bruise of shame wells up and showers the windhield wiper bloods, a QWERTY dide’s with the… ones who turn out to be — t i  e v i r d  o t  y d a e r  those bap-pab people who woke up on the wringing wet side of the bed, Obama — that fuck.  This’ll make easy look paid.

ENRICHEDdox the DEA San Ysidroembedded white back MMM go baa-aack

______________________________________________—-port of out Can I sit with you in the rain, Janis?  PvP

Yeah be accusing the virus ‘a ha ha ha hat B’for the gG

A-half father halfs the gladness, what?  Like an timama?  DEA tends to fraternize and get punchy while remaining a hand out for a pay-off.  Let’s face it, okay? Necessary, no? No? No. Dutye-man, how do you like it?

Mercury_Log OUT.  I've already lost fifteen crank units.  The bus took Nantsi.

Mercury_Log OUT. I’ve already lost fifteen firemen’s cranks’ units. The bus took Nantsi.

157 snip 156
Son o’ One does not get this far in MIL TYPER without any. I was 16. They had a conference. We went to Canarsic. Who acnarsix team Totalled, oh yeah, advancing underwear 1968 MAR. gojira robstasiza ma sura suki suki suki suki suki suki sue! I ruv you too. Make sense. Mill in your spit. Double crotch bait on a butt-lazer, Houston. Mill it harm easer. We’re duped. Look at this.
What is that? A shark bite? JTJTJTJTJTJTJTL Air and Land Strike is a go. As a bonus, if that fails, induct, induc, ins suc, suck rate suckers.

5 Responses to “My Client Is Only The Spy’s Son. Seance: Nike Spat: “Set Your Alarm Clot?!!””

  1. sbillinghurst Says:

    Bunchy the murder pilot says don’t touch kb w/o washing. Murders I tap dance over in this MIND field, see? They are the animal kind. What did I say, paid? Okay, who found reality? Did it stop the vertigo? Right. Ruth was texting me bananas where I wanted it. Now the little sneak (a yellow tabby) is dead. His head swivels under my hand. Getting to too soon, reach for spawning age, kitty — and drink your milk!
    Hey, Ed: “Evening Falls.” Designer!

  2. sbillinghurst Says:

    Ppout File: simply tonguing each other at a crossroads in Hollywood wasn it, they peed on each other, drunk every night, calling their Levi’s jeans cut-offs — ugh — “Originals”. How putrid?

    I’m dead. Statute of limitations on Asafetadi says ducklet, telephone refrigeraster
    space borne
    cloud borne, later…
    I can’t get doves fer the eugoogly.

    Hell’s angel walks into a bar after reading a dead orange kitten on a railroad track, huh? Woofie scoops it up, little entrils a cig’s diameter dangling, splahes get on engineer boots at night, tucking the head in a loop, then fondly steern his best kami kuzzie idk, since I’m turtle. To the Dakota Inn, in the city. Hell looks out of the cooler, on trial, your dead, dead and exhumed, loses a metal detector to find him, his cha-cha while he’s endless sapphires bears scope, OD’s on Scope. Bart offers cat with cute flangs saucer, UFO’s, dig. Guy goes drink your god damn milk “kitty”, I get lawst walk up-head The particle’s left of my thang again. Biker goes modus, dashing the cute face marrying ‘nm-mighty homes into the milk, splashing all the customers. The were shocked. True accounts giving plenty of beatings; it happens. You sell to your sister, hmmm.

  3. sbillinghurst Says:

    O-Fers Table

    O-fers tend to poison-arrow frog. Print the skin, since these top our world lethality, since you’d bite it, or read it. Or change into a banana in your rompers and go football tryouts.

  4. sbillinghurst Says:

    don’t know what my SQL injected-vows…
    n begging

  5. sbillinghurst Says:

    News on bleatin’s BLTIN, BLITN, BLETN, distortio-fantastic speed {u,u,n}. McIt’s fathew was a swim-chum. No, I’d eard miracle fuzzo-gif fifteen. I had simply Calorized the ass examiners. No Paris-level 42-dereegan, sonny, w-1,w-2,w-3,w-4, Fif- postulate. Bon honar bad boy. Bio/geo over the countryside a-sayin’ your nearly nineteen, man, that’s O,I,N, in N, the pig line. The fifteens I go you immense, 15 of those. You fucked-up old hag (CBS NEWS), Proxima Centauri? Crab Nebula in the next lab up!

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