"OK. Your evil, gross twin sister, Dr. Bess, like, spills two raw hamburgers on floors then pirouettes when in a deep sleep. That's probably really unhealthy; she has to stop. 'K then, peace."
— Ran Or Art, Be The Black Otter Tale
Wig ranger. Larry G. Quit simping for 405 scurvy pirates who have been frantically screaming "This Is Sparta" towards the full moon for the past thirty-six hours, twelve minutes, and fifteen seconds, pal. Silence 'em now, or thee be facing rapid aging (and no inalienable rights at all
). RIP!
For heaven's sakes, Larry. Can't I go home now? Clearly I have too much time attempting to anagram this entire page. Send vacant embarrassers a small cradle car.
Damn, sons, we're so morbidly oblivious that it proves we're apparently appealing. Hoo boy. Miss C., find money; it is nice for commerce, sins, and falcon shoes.
Our vile breaking of the word "Pluto" slaps me on the knee. AAAA maybe I'd pie you?
Back to the version that's in the right order.
