The Manchester Divided church run a biscuit take-away window on Saturday and Tuesday afternoons; juice and assorted confectioneries are available Mondays and Thursdays. The Carapicuba Sao Paulo Unionists, headed by Maracay Aragua, a man of unyielding spirit, live off the avails of eeling and bluefin, neither amounting to a hill of beans. Colin von Pelt lives with his mamma in a walkup overlooking the aqueduct, neither son nor mamma having a care in the world. They, mamma and son, make flint pie-forks and casserole dishes; the son beleaguered by his mamma’s constant bickering and amorous advances, the advances making his stomach kern.
The sky fell toppling earthward. T’iss a longpunt from the mouth of the Howth to the seashore of the Arans. Ojhpo0ijmpol: Simon says what Simon does. Po0jp0-o9p: Nomis does as Nomis says. ‘--this is ridiculous!’ bellowed the man in the hat. ‘--no two ways about it’. Having once run into Mrs. von Pelt, her knee sending him catapulting head over heel, the man in the hat stayed clear of mamma and son alike. Anyhow they weren’t worth a hill of beans, offering nothing to the crummy life he felt compelled to live regardless of his disgust for it. He could care less what other people did as long as they did it somewhere other than where he was. Factual errors and slip-ups unnerved him; common sense things like the failure to distinguish a Moor’s cap from a Corbusier flatcar cap or beginning a letter with the wrong salutation. Pitiable hygiene in others drew the worst out in him, his disposition changing from bleakly optimistic to disheartened. ‘--I can feel my hat towering above my head’ he said, his hair prone to acts of misconduct and wrongdoing.
The sky fell toppling earthward. T’iss a longpunt from the mouth of the Howth to the seashore of the Arans. Ojhpo0ijmpol: Simon says what Simon does. Po0jp0-o9p: Nomis does as Nomis says. ‘--this is ridiculous!’ bellowed the man in the hat. ‘--no two ways about it’. Having once run into Mrs. von Pelt, her knee sending him catapulting head over heel, the man in the hat stayed clear of mamma and son alike. Anyhow they weren’t worth a hill of beans, offering nothing to the crummy life he felt compelled to live regardless of his disgust for it. He could care less what other people did as long as they did it somewhere other than where he was. Factual errors and slip-ups unnerved him; common sense things like the failure to distinguish a Moor’s cap from a Corbusier flatcar cap or beginning a letter with the wrong salutation. Pitiable hygiene in others drew the worst out in him, his disposition changing from bleakly optimistic to disheartened. ‘--I can feel my hat towering above my head’ he said, his hair prone to acts of misconduct and wrongdoing.
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