The Rewards of Diligent Poppycock

quiet! Fu Manchu and George Bush are talking. the moon sags. we're about to be wet. Fu Manchu, he's fiction, he's insidious precision, he's in command of one part of one brain. George Bush, what is his time? and when they are together, what meets? we should be confused right now. definitely, the program enjoys mites and motes. is the edge of the world slipping into a horizon slot, disappearing? it is hard to tell from this vantage, outside our minds. should we consider this evil as a vacation? we better hurry toward protection, protracting our energy levels into a light, whipped up presence. this present resides, with fierce muddling Bush at the helm of together, and Fu Manchu whispering. a synergy of narrative plot lines gropes towards the new novel. future deeds plop before us, and we'll tackle the situation of discovery. which one is more meaningful? does the fiction remain unattained? okay, let us quiet the questions. the situation deserves murk, because we have asked. a clutch of bedfellows thrive in the muck. they will die in a land without air. their progeny will escape into a dotty future. we'll need circumspection up the wazoo to deal with it all. regard the checklist, see if we're ready.