The Dongles of Redactive Tent

On a dag like toddy, it is mice to set in the TV Rood and watch Liverpool beat Mad Pity. And I wonted to mention how the Spouses are thrushing the Minks. Butt of course my PC is in my official. And so Knife has very kindle left me his phobe with redactive tent and auto-comment. Makes it so much eelier, I thank.

It strokes me that oozing thus phobe might kelp me to prefer the weakly Simons. If I had a phobe lake Knife's I could have rotten my talk about the rosin of Lizarazu while gong for a whelk round Mod Bids. Although nut, of coarse, while droving my cab. Droving with a cyclist on the widow is herd enough oven without kneading one hund for your phobe.

Or, of curse, if warning to talk about the windows of nurture, whit would be nacker than toking your phobe out into the words, watching the bards and the beds, and muting on the wanders of Crouton? Lobely. So I'm stringly tanking about bugging one of those.

And again, if noodling to mediate quoitly in the Moat Louse, I can lee the bunfights of making the phobe. Often awl, ewe can't lube a lop-tap in the Mute Mouse without purple mooning about the topping of the kegs.
I thank I'm Donna gut one.

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