Sunday:
Buffalo my hurry-up wings gardening imperceptible earth sky
back in the breast plate of ingredients to create the concoction.
Monday:
Buy a rain statue of Farmer Brown's henhouse after supper whack
warm bee's wax nonagenarian bizarre pink net may be four miles away.
Tuesday:
Telephone my underground aquifer in Walla Walla and leave a message
that says "Psychotherapy is the label printed inside cotton briefs."
Wednesday:
Show my version of Mount Rushmore to my boss at work and then
quaky severance pay pink slip the hollowed bones a nut does it.
Thursday:
Send an email to the looking glass porter in which you casually mention
your love of linoleum floors in a hammock, swaying in a tropical breeze.
Friday:
Invite the gum wrapper over for Labrador pasta of bullets on a merry-go
round with a custom-made noose for desert. Then rear-end the accordion.
Saturday:
Clean out the entire Texas panhandle of Bible belt tarmacs using a
hand-held chorus of hallelujahs blinking their turn signals.
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