Boom to the wildest of the closed-captioning B&W text

With what out

Broccoli sprout

Out and Kaput

I sink my shoveled foot, into a moot point, the last, fasting for Bass, so the freshwater stands still with a shriek shilling of maritime party-pilling, taking the fill-in’s of Grosse Point Blanc, and honk your horn at the withered and worn—homeless people’s clothing—when the creme of the crops, they ask for coins and $1 bills, “THE MONEY”, life with no frills, but the crack-cocain (lol Dave lol) and whatsuch patheticly the panties in the way to be, frivolously, taking the tied times within, and in bed or on the loveseat, coming Cafeteria but of I.C.U. stay of 1 month when wheezing such and such, at Chinese launch, prescripted beseeched every day of the week, and of the Finest Finesse, straddling when un-dressed of Ranch or Italian, prancing Lancers (go WSU!) being striptease, stripshow shoulda-coulda-wooden hard with that look in her eyes—reading Time the magazine, writing about what will be seen, in the homeland, “We’ve landed on the moon!”