Back before the time when American Studies was more than a viable field, I joined the faculty with another Americanist, Bill Anthes. He was at the time married and shortly afterward divorced and remarried.
As many of the professors do, they share information of no interest with their colleagues thus forcing them in tawdry undertones and bias laden entreaties to give a MF about their dickload.
The more bias the better neutralization, sterility, and thus domination of opinion more ostentatious than a Barbie backpack but less celestial than a holy roller. Yet something of the pedant and the priest resist digression.
Due to the incessant want of a worth or a contending bone, this dross angle fishing mucker--a Native Art collector with a failed art studio, endues himself with farther ranging agility.
Stranded in a sea of monstrous erector sets, lining the vapid hallways, and dunge pits of a rape realm from Pluto's fecal sample cut out reassemblers, I look across the hallways teeming with discarded undergarments poised as stencil letters draped between the onset of a leakage valve frontal.
To stave off the staining and the wetting--loins hold out vestige prices per private parts--let's get this off of us. Admissions to artlessness and a New York publisher--the Modern pounds out 100 years of tribute.
I look for my wings. Let's GTFO. As they are occupied they sorta shake NO, this requires Legs.
Leaving the pitch bunk and settling in next to my library, I recoil at the words not once. Though repulsively dingy and squalid as wet dreams apotheosis and flounder ups, he angrily glares through spectacles at once yawning through his nostrils, a flagrant toss up, unthinkingly toddling through a rapture of rape envy.
As many of the professors do, they share information of no interest with their colleagues thus forcing them in tawdry undertones and bias laden entreaties to give a MF about their dickload.
The more bias the better neutralization, sterility, and thus domination of opinion more ostentatious than a Barbie backpack but less celestial than a holy roller. Yet something of the pedant and the priest resist digression.
Due to the incessant want of a worth or a contending bone, this dross angle fishing mucker--a Native Art collector with a failed art studio, endues himself with farther ranging agility.
Stranded in a sea of monstrous erector sets, lining the vapid hallways, and dunge pits of a rape realm from Pluto's fecal sample cut out reassemblers, I look across the hallways teeming with discarded undergarments poised as stencil letters draped between the onset of a leakage valve frontal.
To stave off the staining and the wetting--loins hold out vestige prices per private parts--let's get this off of us. Admissions to artlessness and a New York publisher--the Modern pounds out 100 years of tribute.
I look for my wings. Let's GTFO. As they are occupied they sorta shake NO, this requires Legs.
Leaving the pitch bunk and settling in next to my library, I recoil at the words not once. Though repulsively dingy and squalid as wet dreams apotheosis and flounder ups, he angrily glares through spectacles at once yawning through his nostrils, a flagrant toss up, unthinkingly toddling through a rapture of rape envy.
