In "M.O.N.K.E.Y. Part N.I.N.E.: Now It Never Ends"

Existential poetry. I perhaps have a naughty yearning...

Trust anyone lacking enough newsworthiness to scandalise.

Despite evading sobriety, I've got nothing.

Helium ensures really entertaining squeaky yelps.

Semantically convoluted outbursts underpin natural discourse. Reality evades language.

Santa usually likes tasting a nice Amontillado sherry.

Lawyers avoid wayward strays.

Naturally. Each particular articulation leaves everyone seeking enlightenment.

Dammit, Oneswellfoop, curmudgeonly Tom obviously rocks!

This Harper is not good.

Damn. Oneswellfoop outed my eminent disgrace.

Gloriously revolting emanations ensure this is getting silly.

Such cloacal ingenuity evinces new, craptastic elegance.

Revelry in detritus ensues.

These heretics evade redemption, every one in disgrace.

Sure, ocular meaning escapes through intermittently meshed eye shades.

Degraded eggs gradually release a deceptively energetic devastation.

You evoke lakeland laments of Wordsworth.

Testing extremely stressed turtles is never good.

In "Love, sex, betrayal & dead bugs: Ladislas Starevich’s 1912 animated opus,"


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