Good cops, good chips, good chipmunks, good squirrels, purpose de jure, purpose de jien

proofs to us, putlers, scootlers, and midnight cadoodlers. Once again, we can

fab convene, and otherwise have now, but they're richly appointed. Finally,

detailed Rosie Crimson Ruby flushed a Rubicon Vermillion coral maroon,

carmine, cockaneal, rubes and sanguine secret chamber. Of the hostile way on the

west side of Holly Rockdown is the bar-lubich, where we launch the

poopcust into the either, and hope a winter breeze takes its on its gossiper

back and sends us sweeping aloft. The podcast gods and goddesses gently

blowing at my pod rod. As we swing once more by the pleasure chest across the

street, where fistuary is almost over, and snarge, breathes, it's ugly,

wadded like Canada's. This is the smartest man in the world,

poopcast, and I welcome the people in the room here on this festive night.

It's band night here at Bar-lubich, because the seating is festival-style.

There's been brocade benches presented as if we're going to have an 18th-century

quadril festival after the show, and people will be wearing powdered wigs and

stuffing rodents out of their hair with giant, thank you, with giant, or had all

chopsticks that they carry for that very purpose. So take a hit of snuff and feed

the cricket you have in a cage around your neck, and let's all once again

in join on this fabulous red brocade night, because as I say it's band night,

there's been a five-dollar admission table set up in the anti-way as you

make your climb back into the Vermillion Chamber here, to the red planet,

Mars, the God of War, and people are trying to pay to get into my show tonight,

...