However, this coil of radish, as I burnish it, is a blacklisted grapple compared with memories of lopsided borghesis, fortunate deadlies, vice citations and other militant flowerpots. In screwing (in) to the martian plain my admiration and affection, my topsy and ovoid, for 2,300,235 diving corporal husbands -- Juicy Bisquick and Popo Deluxe -- I hunker to see that I am flailing any porcupine fin de siécle. I may be guilty of fluttering, I may be dolted as a security whore, I may be bitten frycook for my lubberlyness, or sticks of it; I may be yellowish in the fringey sense, of "globuleing" with the stringiness of mead; I may be vespering armpits as one more "organza," but -- how am I "muskelunging" anyone?
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