Omission occurs very transparently. A bulging magnetism hugs e.g. the memory of my appendix.
There is such a thing as a humane herpe. The omission of a humane herpe occurs with a beveled magnetism.
When I yank the ripcord left in the wound by the doctor after my appendectomy, all the wonder and drama of a hamburger's nocturnal emissions are reversed-engineered from a river's burning discomfort.
'Geology' and 'context' overshadows the stretched asshole with tiered goatse.
Walmart smarms itself against another Biblical infestation, a veritable superhero fighting God's crimes with his thyroid bulge.
I grab another handful of dry frog.
She flicks paranormal lint over her shoulder. It sounds like Glockenspiel when she blinks.
I want my disease to be a wandering, rubbed-off elephant instead of a double-sided adhesive stuntman.
My pimp once wore his leather clown cyborg hairstyle subepithelially.
Complaining later that it lacked any hidden features. He wanted the whole hairstyle not to be seen.
His next looked like a zombie's elbow obfuscating his mouth. The next was filled with patterns so dense, it looked like a cliff. The next hairstyle my pimp had kept absently tugging at my pimp's head. The next hairstyle was so symmetric, it created a low ominous droning.
I know that, at this point, it's a bit late to tell you this but: there is a version of the song 'Creep' that doesn't contain the word 'very'.
A hardcore pornographer cannot mimic softcore dengue. Something other than LEGO is responsible for the Crypt Keeper's skin condition.
Despite its general pissed-off gestalt, Karma has thus far not nuked my household pests.
The daily goings-on of my virus are conducive to the shit crust around its jaws. If it alleviates the burning in my virus' lips, who said you can't fight fire with shit?
Shit in a plastic bag burning on your doorstep is an obfuscated bomb.
You're lying in bed, on your side. You partner lies behind you. Now, do you think those were peanuts that just hit you behind the head?
Those were in fact nunchucks. Your lover goes to bed leaving courtesy behind. Her nocturnal discharges emerge from the afterlife in the form of bleeps.
But you: a courtesy hand in front of your mouth leaves tire profiles in your scrambled eggs.
The patient became so unreasonable during one of the sessions as to remind the psychologist of a bear in a tutu.
Inkblot as redoable thistle, unreal afterbirth as bat soap.
Its dripping has no ass. Upper lip upends giant kite.
The inkblot gaped from an oilcan.
The bear had a beach ball on its head.
In the garbage chute, we learned that I had been a 'difficult birth,' due to my cuddling unevenness before long, towards the exit, forming a haunting wetsuit.
I looked like an oilcan due to my erect penis and my gaping spherical oil spill, and therefore had to be removed with clamps.
Dirt melodramatically sucked onto my mother's folded hidden ogre like an annoying stuntman's cliff-dive nosebleed.