phallocracy

history is written by the wieners.

non-standard DNA analysis

standard analysis mainly deals with families of structures. non-standard analysis, on the other hand, deals with structures of families.

the central question in the field is
Q: "who's your daddy?"
the conjectured answer is
A: "i'm your daddy",
but it has only been established in a limited number of particular cases (c.f. the excellent survey paper of S.T. Ripper publised in the journal "Daddy", issue n. 57).

Snaffling the titling bustle by using ferocious capitals

What was he iterating he was performing. Was he ascending to complacement by trekking around a snappy mood or was he, barely, a custodian of a predetermined restraining. When everything else would fail, he would plop into a lowdown uncontended and after any lousy climax, he would be fretting with his carnal spouse, his right palm. What a clusterfuck.

everything you never wanted to know about sex

- λοιπόν, τα λέμε από βδομάδα μαν.
- τι, την κάνεις;
- ναι, πάω πενθημεράκι ελσίνκι με βίκυ και χριστίνα. επιτέλους έπιασε το ψηστήρι.
- για παρτούζα θα πάτε;
- ε ναι, γιατί άλλο πάει ο κόσμος στο ελσίνκι.
- μπαρδεμένα μου τα λες.

The almanac of a tacitum rifle

The rancid repelled both the bindlestiff and the vagabond from their feral pounding. Their confrontation blew over placing a lump of godawful casts and turning them into overlooking their primary famine. Both of them had served in the past, that warmongering, bloodthirsty curate. He used to lam the bindlestiff over and yonder, superposing invisible quinces gesturing with his palms while the latter was lodging wounded on the soil.  

Grope for words

The conflagration presumably perished, right after emerging from the idyllic plethora of love. Who could allure the couple or who would have pangs of terror at termination, was a loathing loathe crawling thought which in turn, wallowed and chattered as a veritable disposal of uninflected oratory.

Stroll in a stakeout

The flock of bruisers had flown the coop. Their vocation now was just to pound feral snakes at the steep inclinations of the timberland. Their discharge was filmic. At the commencement, there was bidding din for decoy and subsequently bawling off with the gullible lease holders. If you could hear a part of them weeping, that would be bogus, an idle charge to move on thrusting frantically.

When will you stow that garrotte

On the trawler were hosted only two; a centenarian gendarme and an intrepid extra-terrestrial. The latter after he got bored of the palaver, in a way he discharged the former by grabbing him from the scruff and throwing him stark from the boat to the sea. He was then wading near the coast and finally his intellect engendered a creative vague notion; never go on badgering someone utmost adept

something decent and military