. . .

Douglas In Our Adams.

"Doors slam shut all around you, and freon gas is discharged into the room. You continue to breath normally for a bit, and then you breathe abnormally. Then you breath normally again, just for a change."

The Only Thing That'd Explain The Noise Outside Would Be Monkeys Making A House.

You can picture them.

Mr. Gums, the old one, hits a plank of wood a couple of times with his head before a wheelbarrow nap.

Scazz is the one with hammers duct-taped to his hands and feet, and he wails on everything he sees, fauxhawk flailing in the wind.

And there's a robotic monkey out there. There always is.

He's undoing all the work, perpetuating the job forever.

Genuine Name For The Chris Morris Collective Unconscious.

Ann Scantlebury.

. . .

After Closing Time, A Librarian Broke The Man's Mobile.

He went out to the park, then, shouting at girls.

"I will kill your cunt," he said.

The water rippled out against the rocks and foam cups.

A glint of sun, now mid-drop, sparked off the heads of old psychology professors.

As he got into the distance, along the drift of bird-calls, bicycle bells, and families from other countries, the word "cockgrass" floated in from the wind.

Band Bio Generator.

TUSH
Rising from the various youth centers and high school auditoriums of Cape Town, Tush shot to the top of the pop scene in 2007 with their debut album, Boir. The band's latest album, Dregs, channels Dent's saccharine hooks with clean sing-alongs to fashion an album teeming with teenage anthems. With standout tracks like "Jollies," dominating radio airwaves far and wide, Tush is an essential addition to any music lover's library.
Bumbershoot

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