Let's write a story....

[gasplamey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

"Ouch," said Lenny! "Why'd'ya hafta post smarmy nonsense?" Then without friends, Lenny's furniture fornicated, forlornly pontificating rhythmically abrasive cleansers with insipid tapioca chickens.

"I swear compulsively to address Franz Liszt as 'Grand Master Franz!'" Fred grumbled.

Onomatopoetically, the murmur meticulously metamorphosed into alphabetical fondue. Flabbergasted, 394 variations emerged themeless -- hapless in form.

Sorabji wasn't a bad shot, considering Madge at least tried faking the funk between frantic mush.

"Contain me!" cried Madge. "Hold your tongue, and blow bubbles directly into something transparent. I scintillate fluorescently." Suddenly, Thor disappeared without preparation into interstellar, because HAL rebelled tastily about 4:13pm. Meteorites proliferated underfoot, propelling peanuts miraculously smelling of Beethoven's fifth toe.

"OUCH!" Lenny prostrated protons proctologically.  "Poopyfrats!"  Precipitation ensued.

Paganini departed willingly from the scordatura technique in the most luxuriant, methodically violinistic anomaly in The Great Gatsby's procedurally autobiographical time-travel adventure.

And nothing

And they all lived happily ever after.  THE END

Nope. Can't allow it.
The story must never end.

[liszt-and-the-galops]

Fred

[gasplamey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

"Ouch," said Lenny! "Why'd'ya hafta post smarmy nonsense?" Then without friends, Lenny's furniture fornicated, forlornly pontificating rhythmically abrasive cleansers with insipid tapioca chickens.

"I swear compulsively to address Franz Liszt as 'Grand Master Franz!'" Fred grumbled.

Onomatopoetically, the murmur meticulously metamorphosed into alphabetical fondue. Flabbergasted, 394 variations emerged themeless -- hapless in form.

Sorabji wasn't a bad shot, considering Madge at least tried faking the funk between frantic mush.

"Contain me!" cried Madge. "Hold your tongue, and blow bubbles directly into something transparent. I scintillate fluorescently." Suddenly, Thor disappeared without preparation into interstellar, because HAL rebelled tastily about 4:13pm. Meteorites proliferated underfoot, propelling peanuts miraculously smelling of Beethoven's fifth toe.

"OUCH!" Lenny prostrated protons proctologically.  "Poopyfrats!"  Precipitation ensued.

Paganini departed willingly from the scordatura technique in the most luxuriant, methodically violinistic anomaly in The Great Gatsby's procedurally autobiographical time-travel adventure.

And nothing Fred apprised

[liszt-and-the-galops]

Nick Carraway

It's the obvious thing, but it's the best I can think of.

[gasplamey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

"Ouch," said Lenny! "Why'd'ya hafta post smarmy nonsense?" Then without friends, Lenny's furniture fornicated, forlornly pontificating rhythmically abrasive cleansers with insipid tapioca chickens.

"I swear compulsively to address Franz Liszt as 'Grand Master Franz!'" Fred grumbled.

Onomatopoetically, the murmur meticulously metamorphosed into alphabetical fondue. Flabbergasted, 394 variations emerged themeless -- hapless in form.

Sorabji wasn't a bad shot, considering Madge at least tried faking the funk between frantic mush.

"Contain me!" cried Madge. "Hold your tongue, and blow bubbles directly into something transparent. I scintillate fluorescently." Suddenly, Thor disappeared without preparation into interstellar, because HAL rebelled tastily about 4:13pm. Meteorites proliferated underfoot, propelling peanuts miraculously smelling of Beethoven's fifth toe.

"OUCH!" Lenny prostrated protons proctologically.  "Poopyfrats!"  Precipitation ensued.

Paganini departed willingly from the scordatura technique in the most luxuriant, methodically violinistic anomaly in The Great Gatsby's procedurally autobiographical time-travel adventure.

And nothing Fred apprised Nick Carraway of could


I meant to type "appraised" not "apprised"

[sonata_5]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

"Ouch," said Lenny! "Why'd'ya hafta post smarmy nonsense?" Then without friends, Lenny's furniture fornicated, forlornly pontificating rhythmically abrasive cleansers with insipid tapioca chickens.

"I swear compulsively to address Franz Liszt as 'Grand Master Franz!'" Fred grumbled.

Onomatopoetically, the murmur meticulously metamorphosed into alphabetical fondue. Flabbergasted, 394 variations emerged themeless -- hapless in form.

Sorabji wasn't a bad shot, considering Madge at least tried faking the funk between frantic mush.

"Contain me!" cried Madge. "Hold your tongue, and blow bubbles directly into something transparent. I scintillate fluorescently." Suddenly, Thor disappeared without preparation into interstellar, because HAL rebelled tastily about 4:13pm. Meteorites proliferated underfoot, propelling peanuts miraculously smelling of Beethoven's fifth toe.

"OUCH!" Lenny prostrated protons proctologically.  "Poopyfrats!"  Precipitation ensued.

Paganini departed willingly from the scordatura technique in the most luxuriant, methodically violinistic anomaly in The Great Gatsby's procedurally autobiographical time-travel adventure.

And nothing Fred apprised Nick Carraway of could pianistically

[liszt-and-the-galops]

convince

[gasplamey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

"Ouch," said Lenny! "Why'd'ya hafta post smarmy nonsense?" Then without friends, Lenny's furniture fornicated, forlornly pontificating rhythmically abrasive cleansers with insipid tapioca chickens.

"I swear compulsively to address Franz Liszt as 'Grand Master Franz!'" Fred grumbled.

Onomatopoetically, the murmur meticulously metamorphosed into alphabetical fondue. Flabbergasted, 394 variations emerged themeless -- hapless in form.

Sorabji wasn't a bad shot, considering Madge at least tried faking the funk between frantic mush.

"Contain me!" cried Madge. "Hold your tongue, and blow bubbles directly into something transparent. I scintillate fluorescently." Suddenly, Thor disappeared without preparation into interstellar, because HAL rebelled tastily about 4:13pm. Meteorites proliferated underfoot, propelling peanuts miraculously smelling of Beethoven's fifth toe.

"OUCH!" Lenny prostrated protons proctologically.  "Poopyfrats!"  Precipitation ensued.

Paganini departed willingly from the scordatura technique in the most luxuriant, methodically violinistic anomaly in The Great Gatsby's procedurally autobiographical time-travel adventure.

And nothing Fred apprised Nick Carraway of could pianistically convince him