seems like what, there is never anything in our always dare to newbling world

i am a pig in that i know how to survive but i wont eat you unless you are dead and i am gone and starving

literal true statement

i’d rather eat people than chickens or pigs anyway
although with the quality of fast-food nation diet i’d rather eat grass and that would likely be much better for one’s warbly gawrbly sudden surreptitious sense of keep it down please stars and S fay neighborhoods are watching get a handle on your hambone would you child of joybeans to who::: hunky roary, hung my humble stumble stubbled hubby out to driven drying, why me how to guesting shared of terror oh forever what such favor oh such luck, of hell to all the sumter sooners, hell of health

Pageantry can be quite maddening and ridiculously destructive trite and outsourced esp. when choreography is so frequently unrehearsed and lines of pathway bungled and/or given to misinterpretation, injury and calumny of the over or meekly totalitarianistically invested

But I mean, what are we gonna do, say no? everybody loves a parade

Me, I like tree parades, and encouraging the kids these days to be upstanding cagey private dicks of the sketchy slower-better-bed-is-down-to-me-and-you republic punks, with jeans and legs and lips and all for awful selfish cause, cause after all this is still legally a free country as far as fasheon policing, and blessed struggling on to dumbly exist in the name of animal sufficiency and love replete or minimal in-hopes-to-get-there-or-yet-be-left-t’abet-go-on tiny perpetuities of kindness and recognition for comfort and soft and posterity that turn into coke-level addiction, and of course solar power and pungent moonshine and recycling