Some people do lines of coke. I do lines of sleepy.
The little temple's simple tables came completely clamped by cables.
The battered batter's badder brother bet a bundle he was better.
Sadly, Bradley had me mad in me mind. See? Daddy's glad we lagged behind.
Sam Bran Bron Or Ty, each is the Son in their father's eye.
I was doomed. There was no way out. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Then I remembered I live in three-dimensional space and climbed over the rock. Thanks, Captain Kirk.
There are only two things the body does automatically that can be consciously overridden: breathing, and making jokes based off of people misunderstanding binary code.
Taco Bell has never once sold me a bell. I keep having to steal them.
I tire of this charade. I grow weary of these games. I am made sleepy by these twenty questions. A peculiar drowsiness is threatening to overtake me, and I'm certain that this Scattegories is the culprit, sirrah. Inasmuch as I am finding myself overcome by a somewhat staggering sense of ennui, I am also fast approaching a level of lethal lethargy that will result in a certain state of somnambulism, with the only logical cause of this dreadful state being that selfsame bit of tomfoolery that we few gentlemen and ladies gathered here have, with varying degrees of un-Christian-like enthusiasm, been engaging in for the latter half of the past quarter-hour: Go Fish!
Help, I'm trapped in an ironic prison making factory!
The battered batter's badder brother bet a bundle he was better.
Sadly, Bradley had me mad in me mind. See? Daddy's glad we lagged behind.
Sam Bran Bron Or Ty, each is the Son in their father's eye.
I was doomed. There was no way out. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Then I remembered I live in three-dimensional space and climbed over the rock. Thanks, Captain Kirk.
There are only two things the body does automatically that can be consciously overridden: breathing, and making jokes based off of people misunderstanding binary code.
Taco Bell has never once sold me a bell. I keep having to steal them.
I tire of this charade. I grow weary of these games. I am made sleepy by these twenty questions. A peculiar drowsiness is threatening to overtake me, and I'm certain that this Scattegories is the culprit, sirrah. Inasmuch as I am finding myself overcome by a somewhat staggering sense of ennui, I am also fast approaching a level of lethal lethargy that will result in a certain state of somnambulism, with the only logical cause of this dreadful state being that selfsame bit of tomfoolery that we few gentlemen and ladies gathered here have, with varying degrees of un-Christian-like enthusiasm, been engaging in for the latter half of the past quarter-hour: Go Fish!
Help, I'm trapped in an ironic prison making factory!