victory_sauce epitome of incomprehensibility Foreword: The phrase "victory's ours" in the song "Primo Victoria" by Sabaton sounds like "victory sauce." Little else makes sense. Enjoy. 1. CIRCUIT DYNAMICS Zeugma appliances cannot deteriorate at the same rate as painted flakes of cloaked malice. Sycophantic cerebellum ska percolates effervescently among corporate snapshots: the eiderdown rock ticking flexes intentionally towards the left. Index match-ups nick the stitch vectors with glitter tricks and negative polarity. 2. MOISTURIZER Sell-by dating flicks particle physicality between pore interstices. Plush, pear-like elastin veils elegant egg skies in androcentric reimaginings of underwater mobiles. Whirling, whirling, the primary and tertiary Canadian spellings wick moisture and absorb aesthetic and ethical considerations. 3. TANK TOP "First in the line of fire" leading the way. Animal sneers of machinery kiss nomenclature hello and goodbye. Otherwise, ammunition for mortar bricks in caterpillar tracking across radar beams would necessitate tactical spaghetti straps. We can't have that. 4. MEGAN THEE STALLION REFUTES PLAGIARISM ACCUSATIONS Wretched candle savage you can't hold a digital cessation to, and whyever? Nobody likes a philandering downdraft towards the molten core of earthy powers (buns of steel, puns of cupcake). Superartillery (see last entry) among ahs and huns. Klepto angel hawking crypto hums. Fun in the sun. Lavish, localized, pole-warbling around the steal core of embezzled Swarovski prisms, despite the disgruntled shitstain ambassadors. To the birds it's sampling, and you are both original and copy. The joke is that "thee" is bougie for candle in French. Norman innovation. Strike for extra letters. 5. PRIMO VICTORIA Downstrike, downdraft, digital icecraft. Grip heel, burnt rubber, blasted hollow of concrete frame. N-thing the clenched hagiography of victory sauce: primo sauce, Mao, pickle hub. What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Patriotism. We who attacked the capital letters on Jan. 6 (1944) only wanted spreadable sandwich innards, not the leaking metal intensity tubes. "I'm making a sweet tea Bundt cake" radiates from the TV. Copywrite strike. 6. CELERIAC Celestial celery root, look down upon us. From cerebral calcification deliver us. Alzheimer's plaques tangle with Roman turtledoves, the shields of salvation, the sabatons swift with the irascible playlists delivered in a hot girl summer of ineluctable bandwidth and tamale trucker bots. Princess Celestia, let us not unplug the celeriac volubility too soon. 7. ULYSSES CHAPTER 19 Psalm 151. Beethoven's 10th symphony. A baker's 14. 7-ever. What, ever? Fibonacci. The viscous vicissitudes of calling yourself Stalin on YouTube? Checkmate, intolerant bottom. Snoop Dogg feat. Deadmaus: catty. Gajah smarati. Elephant remembers Sanskrit, big-bland yogurt lacks culture, a snifter of brandy for the snobby sweetcheeks. Thy stallion is not stealing, unless you define it. Russian is not stalling, unless. We haven't been communist since the fall of the Montreal Sanskrit Berlin Wall. We Have Never Been Modern. 210712 what's it to you? who go blather from