Consider the implications, implied in your summations, bereft of
any measure, of any future winning pleasure. You think you got
the rhyme, the time, the sign, the sublime - well lemme tell you
that this nation of constipation erupting from your Platonic,
moronic, buffonic colonic leaves us wracking our minds over the
lacking crack-head tactics of the ass-ticks stuck to your
fantastic plastic, spastic glass dick, shattered in the mouth of
your mom's metal grille - she can't get her fill, 'cause your
Philosophy lacks sophistry.
