"PAY THE BILLS, BOY-O," screeches the duck, seemingly night and day. She's currently shooting for 85 million, and she'll never see it. "Sorry I can't offer you a stipend at this time. I have no bananas," said Floyd, with stunning sincerity. Sniveling sybarite that he is, he simply cannot compete with his Uncle Betty (he of the matronly muni bond, if it matters), voted Best Rug Wetter of the 16th Century by the Society of Scarcely Shorn Yearling-Worn Darlings.
O sprightly and wily raconteurs! Sojourn with The Duchess—heinously garrulous though just a wee bit portly—in a lyrical manner typical of her aplastic and chimerical demeanor at the manor. For only those implacably endowed with quintessential perspicacity can silence the imp ... as they must. Once and for nevermore, sharing municipal funds of an insalubrious daguerreotype with the inexorably perplexed vox paparazzi. "Happy Meal?" Looney deal—high-yield muni, Rooney!
Collaborate, if you dare, with aberrant cupiditious polymaths without regard of the unpropitious indigent. You shall not be forsaken through noisome constabularies. Grok the plight of the lissome Celine, for it has been said that she and only she is "the best in all the world!" (though exactly which world remains unclear). Fishery beneath the depths of quality preferred income fund 2 is her game, methinks. She's just a tad slow is all.
Demeanor day are, the harder they fail. Musky mall rats mellow in the mourning mist of meliflorous malcontent. Dare, oh typically topical tap toes--tamp tonal tempos to the top ten tenors! Polly morphs indignantly downward to the dingy dumps of despondent dime dancers. Clearly obfuscation has obliviated the bloviators. Methodology over cosmetology moves the tadpoles to tears every time.
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