2001-04-16 :: 8:40 p.m.
At my first job (fondly known as Data "Rear" Entry), some kid stumbled upon a random phrase generator.
One nerd under God wanted fuzzy armpits.
Those mice were as polka-dotted as you. Grass hums.
That little retarded girl is freedom.
The fretful software hiccuped.
Kids sleep with computers and pecan pies.
The television dreams of sparkling violas.
There is slime around Cleopatra's glowing toilets.
Nevertheless you are reptilian.
Retards can be innocent.
I was his quadratic polygon.
John Travolta should have been some musical frisky man.
Is deja vu radioactive?
Feline mice enjoy sordid peanuts.
You're automatically sad.
I should be blissful about vinyl lasagna.
My water pistol imagines.
Gallant teenagers are like bald geologists.
I have been your dismayed stereo.
Might the stoned nerd be a nasty kitten?
Pull my puny cerebrum
I and you are deities and I am metallic.
You are not he, he was you.
Husbands and phasers are occasionally crusty.
I have been God's klutz.
Penguins in the itty-bitty digital barn.
Absurd dull girls in our presence.
You have been seductive.
They were possibly painfully repeatedly kissing.
Skin shrinks, so you rotate.
Mommy sounds and my plastic swami in the kitchen.
He won't write, you might explode.