so what was i "supposed" to find at the end of a bottle... not a hint of chocolate? i was supposed to find a chcolate bar... and not a ******* submarine at its nadir?! please... i want a way past the usual suspects of a curry sauce... i.e. cardamon, cinnamon, cumin, coriander...
i'm not joking... at the end of a grouse... there's some chocolate... and not a ******* submarine?! so what the hell am i drinking? ****-joy USA republicanism says... my postage stamp reads IG1 and not RM1...
sprinting look! look! an ostrich is making a runner! away from providing the dozen-one ratio of an omelette...
could have had the stories of an american marine, instead, learned some chemistry... best i could ever accomplish? work in a supermarket... so i thought... but the pyramids were already allocated! you could see them rise... high, high. until overshadowing the clamour of political maggot speak...
no one tries to state... because bell's whiskey is trying to be too much of laphroaig... the grouse is lost to the belgian chocolatiers, hidden...
who the hell thought of mingling choc. with whisk.? john kim / the angry therapist... interviewer? helena de bertodano... his father, he says, was an alcoholic, 'he would come home and vent on the family. he never told me i was good.' i'm an alcoholic... i'm sooner bound to talk to my shadow than a person... as my ex-girlfriend used to say: good-for-you... yeah... good for whatever good is left for me to heave... life coach... or lkie in the american masterchef... a contestant, with an occupational status of: a professional grocer... i don't even know what that is... be a singer, cultivate a sing-sing Monday at the pub variety of karaoke...
an alcoholic, no immediate outlet... scribbles... françois rabelais... and a book that contains all the signatures of a formidable counter-plagiarist... gustave doré... you wish you could copy him... i almost forgot... that i was thinking of albrecht dürer... you can almost confuse the two... gustave doré conta albrecht dürer... itches of all of one's worth culminating in a crescendo of suspect irritation... how could i ever confuse gustave doré with albrecht dürer? i must be assimilating a dyslexic approach!