. . . the sad balance of my forefront follicles, resembled the collection of pubic hairs I had just seen in the men’s room after micturating into the urinal. Of course, like every blogger, I check my Technorati rating every ten minutes. It may permit us to understand the instinctive impulses from a binary perspective, which should in turn shift paradigms. It had left me impotent. I don’t know about you folks (and perhaps some of the more genre-blind participants might want to offer a few words here), but I find it extremely interesting when this happens. It is mimesis, rather than transmutation. Generalized castigations sans examples. It’s all the ooze that’s fit to squint. My feeling is that Boyle, despite a lumpy midsection, eventually figured out a way to fuse his penchant for troubled humans (and certainly Peck Wilson comes across as a farcical foe) with a gripping cross-country thriller. Fact: Andrew Baron has a large cock. It’s bigger than mine. I know this because we both dropped our Dockers and it was Andrew who whipped out the ruler. It often clouds his better judgment in matters of the heart. Then any decent poetry critic must divagate within this territory.
My in-house randomtade.
[The preceding has been a work composed entirely from the contents of Edward Champion’s Return of the Reluctant.]