Fruits hurt like torpedoes in the kneecap, that’s why I never drink my tuberculosis straight from the chalice of the amputees. Barbaric like the most sincere hug, the star studded velcro of my nightgown becomes ironic for not having been ironed during the ice age. Big deal for a small referendum. The flock of eavesdroppers will in return scarcely throw themselves down a cliff with Richard. There is enough charcoal for everyone so no need to gallop like yet another quickly fading trend set by a surrogate mother chanting “too much dill in my oesophagus, get the devil out of my funeral home”. It’s rather creepy and jolly at the same time, are we at the dawn of a watermelon panic? Am I there yet? Lure the wrestler out of his jug my friends, for the stapler is only the appetiser.