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Creating a Story Three Words at a Time

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Hamsters ran wild in several thousand groups of three. Overwhelmed, the Republicans set fire to the homes of all those that could not flee. Then they marched through the streets to the chants of Alflives and crying Melmacian treats. Whiskey bottles littered the wet pavement, leaking like poor incontinent elderly poodles. The hamsters drank profusely, cursing like DarthMelvin at a gay bar, crying over lost chances. Despite the turmoil, Trump screamed “Derp” as he tried psychically stimulating every neuron in the hamster’s reproductive organs with partial success, horrifying everyone alive. The gangsters from way down under heard some thunder followed by rain. You could taste the wretched brine in the air, suffocating the senses like a python coiled tightly around a statue. Can’t begin to fathom why blue cheese was found beside the liquors, decomposing.


The loss of Chandler’s mixtape was a triumph. Only a king could understand why burning Chandler’s mixtape was a triumph. The Hamster War waged, millions marching towards Toronto with gigantic Day-Glo dildos stolen from the corpses of slain Methodists, Baptists, and Pentecostals. Can you believe what has become of the fragile hamster hider, DarthMelvin? It’s not a persistent problem, rather one more like an ebbing tide or occasional diarrhea. Unable to resist, DarthMelvin shrouds the flaccid phallus he hid in shame, weeping like a caricature of himself lost in Bangkok without exhibitionist licensing.


Meanwhile, in Toronto, miniature catapults were launching buttplugs at downtown, comandeered snow plows aggresively swerved, barely missing hoards of crying puppies and kittens. During this onslaught, the hamsters gigantamaxed every orifice available while the hedgehogs writhed in ecstasy. Unbeknowst to DarthMelvin and his comrades, Rob Ford’s corpse—still medically high—&^@#ed a hamster with intention. The passion was real, the cocaine too. Calling for reinforcements, Lucky’s separated cheeks excitedly invited in the hamster army by the thousands. DarthMelvin was so horny and so jealous of Lucky and his free-style rap skills, he crammed 42,000 hot models in a gas chamber under dysgenic policies. Meanwhile, Qwags watched quitely by window-paintings of sunsets blanketed the walls around my heart and fart smells of strawberry lemonade.


Sitting, silently contemplating stoichiochemical concepts and eternal damnation, Trump began to dial DarthMelvin's mom for her banana pancake all-flappity-breezy rooster-squishing recipe without nutritional value.

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