"Zanzabers-iz-ers," Bleh made-up, on-the-spot-like, "that's a passage of text that I can really get behind, and
I get get behind anything."
If only Bleh could rock a hat that hard, "The hell, third-person, I am still perfectly equipped to give you a good and solid, and might I add,
decidedly deserved word-mashing with my mouth-tongue!". I think Bleh has linked to Canadian content quite enough, and as the owner of his narrative, I do apologize.
"What? No, there is no such thing as too much, and technically, that was recorded in London, that's where Try-Farger-Squared is, amiright!" Bleh advertises to a decidedly unlistening audience. "Look, you, I've had about enough of this narrative misrepresentation, and therefore a good thwap is..." Bleh, ceaselessly, yabbles.
After fuming at his narrative a very slight bit, and a very slight bit is a rounding error as attention span is a rare and precious commodity in Bleh's head-space, Bleh nods his agreement toward Nudge. "My nails were dirty, and it smelled of quality bathtub hooch," he hics, apropos of nothing other than his clear intoxication.
Instantly, Bleh receives a self-inflicted, acetone-based, blow to his head. His last neuronal misfire is, "I needed that particular brain cell more than it knew," whereupon his brain-bucket slumped against the fire-raging phallus.
Many pictures were Tweeted and Facebook'ed, and a Sharpies well-used, while Bleh was limp against the flaming penis labelled "Mother". His dreams were... well... let's not explore that particular avenue.
A quantum state of signature may or may not be here... you just ruined it.