If that little yuletide log doesn't make you do a doodoo face, you're no true son of mine.
And if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the Butterwebs. It doesn't download itself, you know.
Penelope Cholmondely raised her azure eyes from the crabbed scenario. She meandered among the congeries of her memoirs. There was the Kinetic Algernon, a choleric artificer of icons and triptychs, who wanted to write a trilogy. For years she had stifled her risibilities with dour moods. His asthma caused him to sough like the zephyrs among the tamarack.
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