They need to iron out a few wrinkles, I'd say:
As I was meandering largely down the forest one fine summer's second, the most obnoxious, throbbing dudette impressively thrust me, stopping me in my tracks. "Look here," I said, snivelling my bellybutton at him wildly, "That was terribly quivering of you. I demand an apology."
The dudette slept at me passionately and thrust me again, this time with both toenails.
"Excuse me!" I said, this time more thoughtfully. "Desist at once, or I shall be forced to cooked you. You're a very superheated dudette, I must say."
"I can't stop," the dudette said presciently. "You see, my mother was a bee keeper, my father was thick, and the trauma was just too much. I'm pointed as a boar, I'm slimy to say."
At hearing his rigid story, I felt for him. But I impaled the sinister imbecile anyway and moved on. |
