This whole thing is like some sort of infinitely sized glory box full of gum-booted lovebugs. It’s a hoot. And shoop shoop doo wop to you and yours and all that and that. This whole thing is badgering on borderdom, but link-tabling to some excruciating new form of joyousness. It’s’ a hoot. And toot! toot! toot! to it and it’s and the whole gummed up bummed down thing.
Hey fluffy! This whole thing is flipping me it’s dipping me in and out of a gigantic punchbowl full of the insipid milk of human blindness. But somehow it’s a hoot. Like the rub. In the tub. 3 men. Yummy. And now I’ve been dubbed onto the whole languid scene and I’m already feeling like a hasbeen. It’s somewhat like a hoot. Pointless noise. Spinning off. Into vacuum. Nothing. Reflecting. Nothing reflecting.
But that’s buckled think! For me this whole thing is like a million noggins all merged into none. The singularity of human insight. With nothing to say. God it’s a hoot. It’s an annie. It’s a fluke it’s happening. The flute is happening. It’s a poop it’s crappening. I know you’re all dancing.
This whole thing is a hoot. It’s spooks me. I’ve spread-eagled all my loot over it. It’s like an unscrupulous croupier. Did I say doop doop doop. Um, like, it’s a hoot, man. It’s a hootman. There’s not a lot less I can say.