And forsooth! He glared at his gleaming rod of a stream as it burst forth from his nether nexus. He glared at it as she had not, for she had been more interested in the waitress-Jezebels which tempted that nexus but she had not foreseen such occurrences as had occurred. And so he pissed! He pissed with reluctance into that pit which had turned into the nether regions of his relationship, the toilet of his troubles. Gleaming rod! He wished it could ice over into some weapon which would aid him in the quest back of his manhood that that malfeasance had wrought upon his very being.
His being had been wrought upon, surely, by that Jezebel herself, the wench! She had wrought him but good, that whorely wench, by having slept upon his moorings and the postholes of his soul. She had dug deep there, in the clay of his makeup, that was where she had chosen to erect her structures and build the buildings by which she had wrought the laws by which she had compromised the inner structures of his soulstuff. As he pissed his laser rod of gleaming urial uddertude, he contemplated the chaosastic beneficence by which she had betrayed him.
Surely she had, he contemplated! Surely she had done him such great wrong! That Nazi of his innertude, that Jezebel had surely Jewed him out of his rightful inheritance from the world. He wished to have already unplugged the massive black talon of the cord that connected to the life machine which glumfully pumped the wasteland of his heart through his meager, weak veins. The very veins which had so closefully meandered through the heart of his past on their way toward the desolate future which had compromised his being.
And so he watched his father, nexus of his birthstuff, which had birthed him, and he pierced his gleaming sword of piss through that nexus to the soul of his troubles, and though he didn't maintain that by which he had loved, he retained, still, that by which he had been wronged and by that which he loved his soul he felt restored and his mien once more restored to that recalcitrant ineptitude which it had so long forsaken.
His being had been wrought upon, surely, by that Jezebel herself, the wench! She had wrought him but good, that whorely wench, by having slept upon his moorings and the postholes of his soul. She had dug deep there, in the clay of his makeup, that was where she had chosen to erect her structures and build the buildings by which she had wrought the laws by which she had compromised the inner structures of his soulstuff. As he pissed his laser rod of gleaming urial uddertude, he contemplated the chaosastic beneficence by which she had betrayed him.
Surely she had, he contemplated! Surely she had done him such great wrong! That Nazi of his innertude, that Jezebel had surely Jewed him out of his rightful inheritance from the world. He wished to have already unplugged the massive black talon of the cord that connected to the life machine which glumfully pumped the wasteland of his heart through his meager, weak veins. The very veins which had so closefully meandered through the heart of his past on their way toward the desolate future which had compromised his being.
And so he watched his father, nexus of his birthstuff, which had birthed him, and he pierced his gleaming sword of piss through that nexus to the soul of his troubles, and though he didn't maintain that by which he had loved, he retained, still, that by which he had been wronged and by that which he loved his soul he felt restored and his mien once more restored to that recalcitrant ineptitude which it had so long forsaken.
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