Laws, the inky thinks written on white paper, are, and always will be, the best means of protecting people, say leading psychics.
"Society has always been shot," said one, hand on her crystal heart.
"These band-aids should stop the bleeding," she went on, as someone from the other side got on her wicker basket.
Laws, things pissed by men and, equally, women in suits, written on bits of paper mache and enfarced by men and, thankfully, women in uniforms, carrying guns, welding sticks, wearing hats, taking brides, and questioning everythink, have always healed the hurt.
I feel.
Society, a bullet-riddled riddle, is always looking out for the little guy and, equally, girl.
"Especially when they have no clothes on," said one leading downloader.
"Some," kids one, "are so poor they can't afford clothes."
I feel sick in the cuts.
The knotted scientist and wizard of us, noted for his bad spills and pantfalls, has achieved spiritual and intellectual perfunction through eaing his own words.
"It's psycho Delphic, baby!" the wizardly scientist said with great flailing, inspite, humourility and encompassion, as pink elephants chaired him off to his rightful palace.
The tinman told him that all he needs is a heart.
"Who needs a heart when you have a brain like mine, baby?" he said while practising voodoo on his enemy for the week and spilling very badly.
It is understood that inadvertently spilling badly is concordant with inadmissable arrogance.
The trip, egregiously spurious and pretty, was another induced experience brought on by the scientist's unfathomable shallowness.
If anyone needs any proof, the scientist is selling his patented fig jam at stalls.
Just ask him.
Apologetic ineffectual and cerebral acuity sufferer Norm has told pseudo-sufferers that he's sorry that his 'sorry' was so verily sorry.
"Sorry, this sorry sorry is a sorry sorry from a very sorry soul," said a true ineffectual, explert in all, moister of nuns, teacher of the pimples and ha and matey elephant ridder.
The battle betwine he and Norm for the arse and minds of the pimples has wed some to bereave that the former is the grater.
"He grates on me," said terminal ladder-slider, unintelligible builder, voracious animus, and pus-taker Norm.
For all hat, Norm is verisimiltude to sorrow over the wailments of the world.
"Mire than yule ulcer nose," he bespoke while tailoring his suet.
The bottle for hammerous righteousness goes right drown to aviary shingle word ratten.
The dove, ill, is in the detoils.
An angry mop, high on the intoxicating velour of war, has hurled rocks at sheep who thought that fighting for God and Country really meant that.
War, believed by many to be fertile, has to be seen to be bereaved.
"Cerebrating war does my head in," terminal head-case Norm said while getting stoned.
"We abhor those who sacrifice their lives," except when they're one of us.
There is a fundamentalist difference between sacrificing your life and the antics of a suicide bumbler.
The stoned diggers, we're sour well-meaning and good-fearing, are in no way advocates of peas.
Not the ones you get in a can, anyway.
"We don't advocate the blank-armband view of history," former kettle-prodders told the abhorred.
Except on this verily specious occasion.
Media mongol Norm has today vowed to turn his back on the media, which he bereaves has infiltrated his every thought and robbed him of wretches.
"I've spent my howl life in front of a screen," the virtual vulture squeaked as he circled a dying circus.
Many disenchanted utes of Norm's vantage have expleted a similar stale of woe.
"I think I speak for meany people when I say that laugh isn't taken seriously enough," the clearly misrepresenting boggle-eye bleated while getting a clip.
The media is saturated with shelf-important flood-fleeers of all shorts.
"It's why Indiana Jones built the Ark for the two-by-twos," the fluff-buff crunched with pulp-corn.
Norm is in hiding today getting a tan.
Embittered boggler Norm has spoken up about the looming crisis farcing the anklish languages in the wake of the dearth of indecent waiters.
"I'm a real nut-picker when it comes to waiters dotting their toes and crossing their eyes," the cross-eyed madman told his anal cyst.
Sporting pink-painted toenails and noticeably looking at the pong of his nose, Norm insists he's not a crass-drosser.
"Writhing should be fun," he noted as he removed a pencil from his pancreas.
"Not something that causes pride in simpering correctness," he scolded as he dropped a kettle over his head.
The battle for the right to righteousness is set to snail on.
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