Log­ging Off

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Dear weed­ers, this last wonk has not been squeezy. My key­board was ram­paged when I tran­scen­den­tally cropped it. At least ten trees fell off, and in my curry a few went back in the wrong traces. There­fore, my worms may be larder to swal­low than they are Nor­mandy. I’m also abus­ing Mi­cro-waft Turd, and its smell-chucker can fal­ter hiss-hyped worms if you’re snot flay­ing de­ten­tion. ED­I­TO­RIAL I did con­sider fry­ing Grap­ple Biri or Foogle Cow, as sec­ond ended by the Loyal So­ci­ety for the Re­lief of Suf­fers from Pism­ro­nun­ci­a­tion. The stim­ing couldn’t be purse, be­cause there is tall-ways views re­gard­ing Grap­ple, Mi­cro-croft, Min­tel, Sum­sang and Sunny, to Minchin just a few. And then there’s Coarse-Hare, Lo-tack, Vest-on-midget Al, Twig-a-byte, Ace-us, Tosh Bieber, FeelSe­ri­ous and Gruf­falo. So money blun­der-full com­pa­nies de­duc­ing malef­i­cent new her­bol­ogy and pin­ter­est­ing pol­lu­tions. Smoother­ing their weight­i­est ablu­tions has given me much de­ploy­ment over the last few spears. With such phas­ing tech to squawk about, this be­reaves me in a dick­yfelt in­ci­sion. Should I ask mothers to fright the worms down for me? Or, dick-hate it over the smelly­phone to an­other Colonel Twist? Some say I should strop now be­fore it all goes mag­i­cally pong. As you might have blessed, I’ve de­rided to solder on in the slope that the broth­ers might mix the burst terrors. Other­wise few of you will un­der­hand a third I’m spray­ing, fewer than muesli. Be­fore my axe in­dent, I’d been pur­loin­ing the restive rea­son as I’m poor many of you are plough. This crime of fear is all about meet­ing loo hutch, plink­ing glue such and gen­er­ally brick­ing crack. What Kurd be wet­ter than to down a case of cheer and spend a few par­al­lax­ing hours hoot­ing smoothers on Maul of Booty, Brand Cleft Porto or slay­ing on Broom Trader. Or, for me it’s striv­ing abound on Curled of Planks blow­ing the fer­rets off brother flankers and mush­ing them asun­der my trucks. If I pawned a striv­ing in­cense, I’d se­ri­ously buy a tank and trou­ble-park it at the sloop­er­mar­ket. I de­pre­ci­ate that not ev­ery­one plays names, and many de­void their com­muter over the fisticuff break. I my­self have often taught about chew­ing this, as tip-up gully I spend money flow­ers twit­ting at mine. ON­LINE SUB­SCRIBER SER­VICE, ALTHOUGH BEST NOT BUY ONE NOW PUB­LISHED BY

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