Thursday, January 20, 2011
Ars (basketballque; no I don't remember Latin grammer, it's been forever, fuck off) mortis, vita brevis
Offspring the Sequel returned to the homestead with her 8th grade class selection parchment & lo, behold & hark, as expected, fiduciary excision has come to pass & the corpse is alive of course of course unless the corpse is of course the famous Mr. Art. Thanke the Kynge, hys Sheriffs & the plebians who run the local abattoir for, in their own special way, buying snicker into Austerity™ & lopping off the useless-to-corporate, though, & please don't put me in the stockade, French & Spanish shalt remain? Verily, foreign languages are so foreign & when do you think you'll ever be using them whilst jockeying cubicles, connecting to our counterpart minions who already sprechen ye olde Anglo-Saxon?
One step at a time, Randal, one step at a time.
Speaking of the dreary, sweet merciful crap, the Cavs are bloody fucking grotesque, a veritable gaggle (flock? mass? troop? herd? horde?) of undead.