spare me yr pettifoggery by Julian T. Brolaski

Going down down down the stairwell w/ the Sara Michelle Gellar wax figure who looked chidingly on the D-lister one felt *zero* embrigature, only happenstance runes to buzz w/.  Thir hart flummoxed in/and/or around a mason jar that bore a whiff of agave.  It was like a message without a moo.  N says “please, leer at my hump,” and I guffaw outloud—everything but the baa.   Of tablature just erased, of the person themself fooling you into believing they answered your dopey question, using it as an entire springboard to thir own hot spleen causation.  That they was either a nice person orra SUCKA with a sloppy pocket.