druffy_durf_the_harmony_frud paste! the collected hides of the papa smurf are found at the thirfy generation bazaar. durf the macaroni head eats papaya like a shrew. in his mind he quizzes himself on the basic apartheid going on between the logarithms and the tofu shrimp. in himself, his mind slices his fluttering impatient hamstrings until sunstroke sets in on the knife. the dairy queen is on forest fire alert. this bothers him not, but his shadow does in the fast sun and he ties his shoelaces until 59% of the basic interest is lost. thunderous isolation vodka causes his journey to flip a 168-183, depth charging into the abyss of well squiggled lionel rich chump. holding steady the secondary leg of el albatross, druffy trips up the cape of good hopelessness and back down into the party zone. knish are not traitor tots he swears. delicate shuffles out the donation isle. he finds tripe of pluto, a wife in a firestone bathtowel. in kibbles he recalled when han solo was aluminum surfing in nicaragua, the cannibals of playa haters offered to domesticate his wild serving platters, which martha stewart gave him for sex, as the metallic waves were forming 9.3 tunnels. frud the authorbot was dripping with hydrogen, trying to recall the other gripping 31,952 characters that he was today within pita. 040419 ... . . 050527 ... smurfus rex this has *got* to be a coded message. somehow. somewhere. 050528 what's it to you? who go blather from