A roundly round nose, kind of like a red celluloid bowling ball used exclusively on urethane-coated rosewood floors by unmarried women (on the right side of Victorian spinsterhood) and unmarried men who, while uncommitted in a Wodehousian way, are on the right side of confirmed bachelorhood. Roasted—not toasted—lemon poppy seed muffins dipped into beef-less, burgundy-less Beef Burgundy. Where’s the beef? your straight man asks. It’s been removed by an umami filter constructed of silkworm threads, you reply, which is why you’re finding Japanese plums that are barely not quite fermenting on the tree. Nearby larvae develop rudimentary self-consciousness, and bow reverently.
Smooth and cool, out-aloeing aloe vera. You’ll be glad you didn’t burn your tongue in advance of your sip, but you know that if you had, it’d be miraculously healed in time for the new burn—the whisky burn—to a phoenix-like rebirth of your buds like spring announcing the permanent end of ice. John got talcum-inflected poultices prepared by angelic apothecaries in heavenly mortars able to cure legions of leprous lemurs. (Okay, I might have embellished his account a bit.)
Graphene lollipops and a balanced long gliding split, like a ballet dancer starting to slip on a black swan treacherously-greased floor leaning forward into an adrenaline-induced arabesque, back leg thrust behind for balance, demonstrating an easy mastery with impossible insouciance. A revelation—a wholly new Glenrothes emerging from our suddenly outdated impressions. You sank my battleship! I cry, but the 135 lb. champion mixed martial artist who specializes in capoeira takes me out with a bananeira.
[John: Not a very helpful link, Bill.]
Fine! Happy now?