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Genres You Will Love
Metal/Punk: Instrumental Metal Moods: Instrumental Avant Garde: Electro-Acoustic

By Location
United States - United States

Knomigon

In A Minute

Forty-six red herrings in a walnut-vinaigrette sauce, that penguin ain't. Nobody told me not to do otherwise, and I can't refute it.

Unfortunately, fortune never smiles and only half waves at the unfortunate, over and through such distant realms as that penguin could never imagine, toots.

Picking your way through a nose can be challenging; however, the more vigorous the adversary, the more genuine will be thine shoes, blessed in the light of the ugly gray cookie that stalks the red night skies.

The Piranha Club is a really good comic strip. Everybody knows it. Now, everybody will know it too. This will all be part of my plan. Eggplant can be involved. I don't even care, and I don't care if I, or anyone else, means it.

Throw it away and start over. Eject it as a jersey devil might flash his youngsters in a hot sake bath, before tunneling to someone else 's back bone, vis a vis the great, ultimate, inter-vibratory aperture.

Tar With Feather Juice

Suddenly, everyone has new shoes. The Czar is near. With each step that sounds, a dozen or more echo backwards into the annals of their waxy, incandescant molds... this is where the inner ear truly meets the lug nut. As for Sally's professor; a sailor once told him that a strip of walaby bacon, by any other word, loses half its potency don't you know.

Maxwell may be this country's only hope. Fake racoon poop on a rope is not as amusing as it was next year, but it's far more gratifying. That said, it's far easier to recognize avarice, when you see it, than it is to realize a nincompoop with an ace up his hole; far less than Fozzie the Bear prognosticated last week when he was in short pants.

Carl and Boris live near the zoo... at 11:15 each and every morning, Carl gets up, puts his left hand behind his back, sticks his right foot up his throat, puts his right tooth before his left tooth, sends his left face on an elevator to France, and falls sidelong into a bed full of weevils. Can you guess where his daughter has been?

You have forty nine seconds.

Sour Grapes Make Great Shakes

To which end does one address a letter to be mailed to a great bear in the woods? Why, to the end that reads it of course. To what end does the shirt off my back fall on the shiny clean floor? Why, to the end of the world and all the grumpy geese therein.

Whenever I drop something, or you drop me dropping something, or they drop you dropping my drops which I dropped only the night before, Then what do you do?

That's right. You've got it, but run with it. When you're finished, wash it off and snort it up your ear canal where the sauce can't do any less damage than it will do in space.

That's not right at all. Think about what you've done, and why it's right. If you grind it like pesto, you might salvage some gas from the remains.

Otherwise, who can say?

Think about it.

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