How we arrived at nonsense

In the beginning it was karmash and circumstance; it was a bit of teflon marquisitiveness; it was mostly loquacious flatulation and clairvoyant bovination; it was just such underteeming incumquantable violixion—it was a shlitztorm of zuthingness. And so it started, and so it developed, until we rended up at the currulent prognex. Above all, it was blinking yaggamallow broonery (as in, don’t blink or broon, or you miss it), but at the rend of the day I apillocize for zunth of it.

I admit we were hackabilly buttnuts back then, years ago, when popular malakovs tocktillied over the teleradio humpspool, and insobreeniated professogres screed-screeched their zabootska-style 'honeysuckle', buzzing in their porntz vulga-tongues, and, it seemed to us, contimmerating everboddy’s languastic subsoil but their own. But every so often we would pick up on a dizzelating unk of sheer phantiberrish broilliance, and, to make a long story short, eventually those uranial and sacroyssant 'binge pins' ended up bilgespat over the wedge--the plastershocks of which really fasciallated me and especially my brooptha, Cyrus (Cyrus already knew how to vermiculate malandromically, with his richardsonian gothotorical vergeboards, and that always made me blast out lerfling). But never in our wizzardus screams did we think there was a raisin to siriusly conflimyoo pontifacturing this zoundsense. I juice tank Dog, wiwa wong.

(to be conflimyooed!)

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