There comes a time when all the substitutes become summa cum yesterday when it comes to T A L K. The voice is the choice. That doesn't mean it has to be vocce del shannon. <-- that's a sign of regression.

The main take is that conversation sans upchucking is right there behind the drop cloths. <-- a euphemism for tubular balls.

The dilemma gets defined as the battle for who-put-the-dic-hoto-my in the punch? That's circle talk for rating the candor about doggie-paddlin'. This version is replete with assimilation and headed for immortality. I can recite the I-can-do T H I S forever with lockbox certainty. This is entertained because of the nocturnal recision of gone-but-not-forgotten and replaced with "they're big, so release the yancies".

These post-JBF mornings always tie a bow around the snake oil that complies.

Got a taste of the oblivions today and it felt so good.