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Look upon my otters and despair, for they are sleek and playful and thou shall not toucheth them, for they are mine and happy in the trousers of my discontent. For if it were not for my otters, my wallabies would overrun the bathtub and where would we be, if not sweaty and rank with mildew? Look not to my otters, but to the marsupials in thine own shorts be true. Fondle your marsupials freely when you are out in the world, they will rain good fortune upon you and not bite, though you walk in the valley of the shadow of Oprah's buttocks, for they are vast and untouched by the hands of man. Maple syrup pours like mucus from the nostrils of a toddler upon the platypus, and behold, it is sticky. Please don't blame VR, it's not his fault at all, for was it not happy_terd piddling in the hall? Mammaries, like the pair we left behind, hairy jiggling mammaries of Raymond Burr. Dive deeply into the mayo, for here there be hamsters wrapped in electrical tape for your pleasure, but the otters abide, fruitful and multiplying, for the math scores must rise every morning, to pour the coffee of choice into the chaos of boredom. May your bermuda shorts fill with the bounty of the otters, they are pleasing upon your short and curlies, if not for the slings and arrows of Moe and Larry. Shemp's in the closet sorting your socks, will you not enter unto the closet and fold the briefs which stick to the carpet of my mind? Thar she blows, the last star on the left. Full speed ahead and straight on till morning, the cottage cheese is lonely. Handle it gently, apply it liberally upon the loins of the afflicted, what would the flounder do if you refused? Squab. Jackals tear at my frontal lobes, still far from the widening crowd and vast are their waistbands. Yes. No. Only with people if they have bathed. Zip up after the last otter has returned unto you and slap the man at the door. He is far too smug for my liking and his mascara runs into his hairline. Beware the man with angry nostrils, he waits for you in the dreams of a child.
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