bake a cake in a lake

Flying south when the stars mingle with the sour fruit juice, unlike any other simile derived from guilt and shame, reconstitute the placid frothy elbow sharpener much like a three day old fried chicken thigh envelopes a bronchial tube.

Hiding from the leftist movement under a carpet made of stock options is not a piece of apple pie. I should know.

Kindness towards inanimate gusts of tropospheric ions is no way to win dinner.