Spicy Meataball

Tarantellation-tailored Crawstruck was found dumb, lit up like a christmas tree with quiet dignity. He was a useful idiot for a while, but you know what happens when neurons collide with contraband carbon chains. They're illegal for a reason. The Adagio swelled to its baroquesticle sforzando, gravelly strings playing the grave for Don Giovanni's last gravy snuff, a flat out boat-floating burn past the Bardo and Berdoo to the Hollywood Freeway and all-access pass to the American Land of the Dead. Glam rock blocked his cock. Rush stole his viagra. Crawstruck tumbled drunkenly out of the commedia's curtains and onto the Waxen Citadel's stage, buzzing like a violin clonopinned to a coma. "Shakespearean pseudo-cleverness", said noted critic B. Johnson, summing up the historical episode. The nightmare lagged on, the jet long gone, traced back through fossil records to an Altarian port on the dark side of an obscure quasar like a gaudy jewel in a donut, a porthole in a torus cave, impossible according to relativity, but permitted by quantum field theory.

Tarantellation went back to square one on the twister floor as a cello scraped through marinated manicotti.

Tarantellation bootstomped Hindlick's groove before the saucy kraut could make his move. Spicy meataballs to the wallsa. Don't make me put my foot upa your ass.

Tarantellegration ingratiated himself to the making of the draconian documentary. All trains were on time because he got in good with the Maltese yakuza.

Tarantellegranite walls to the balls of beef barons played by vowelese on the governess grands circa 1861 shone like the ruby’s schizoaffective schtick.

The grease on the seat was slickchow, cee eh aye oh, oiling the way for Saint Nicholas. He was able to squeeze through the ducts with the Holy Ghost tucked under his cap and escape the xenomorphs, crazy like a fox because he read about Lao's dao. There followed numerous shake-and-bake colony gigs during which prime directives were violated with jolly aplomb. Eventually he washed up on Crete with an elfin underling, too high on coke to count to thirteen.

So they prosthetized for a kevlar mainframe, he got his endoskeleton pimped out, perfect, circuits for crunching numbers, macrochips dipped in ragu, up the wazoo, out the kazoo, pasta fazul, shut upayouface!

Balsamic burbling up from the kitchen sinks his ambition to reign as Caesar’s slaughtering subset but a compromise could be found in the neutralization of the linoleum-stucco interchange that makes a vital tidal wave inconvenient for the Newark Kapardis.

Benvenuto Ferruccio knew he was the real deal after being burned on the seventh seal, mama mia, she told him not to touch the stove but he couldn't resisti, scarred hand grandeur in the operatic style.

There were too many crying clowns in the car, too many capos in Capone's crew, too many sluts in Hagbard's submarine, and Lovecraft's surplus monsters had them all wrapped in tendrils of past tense, twining history and mystery and getting jiggy with it, and stumbling over pockets of groovinatude, and stubbing toes on funky outcroppings, and hip hopping a dope ass way through the grungified phatness of pizzazz chords beginning in F sharp major and ending on a B flat augmented cadence. As Nostradamus predicted in Dante's Faust. Too much moxy for the proxy war to be sanitized on TV.

But Ferruccio never goes anywhere without his wetwipes. He finds they can get him out of all sorts of sticky situations.

The allegro movement was a release, he unleashed a steaming load into the bowl, his dinner on a cyclic journey, down the tubes, the whole countrie going down the tubes, you don’t want to know how the sausage is made, but thank the blessed mother for the lax attitude of certain corruptibles looking the other way.