type two tike too

A single shingle, a bipolar muscular stroller, a carcinogen named Jen.

A flipped burger, a smelly hamper, an inept actuary.

A single burger, a smelly stroller and an actuary named Jen.

If all of the digital wrist watches decided all on their own in the most simultaneous time possible given the multitude of time zones across this pearl in the desert we call the Universe were to advance their time by two and three quarter pico-seconds with the intention of causing the most minute vacuum within the time and space continuum we seem only barely to understand, then the length of this spectacularly meaningless sentence would continue to the almost ad infinitesimal duration that would a kite have been launched at the beginning of this sentence, the kite flyer herself would have already packed it in and have gone for a nap.

This sentence, coming after the previous, is shorter.

This one, shorter still.

This one, short.

Short.