triglyceride

zankle quooftly squibbled the magnolious flarnick under twelve bees of gelatinous moonlight. Featherpickled bananagrams danced enthusiastically on the Rue de Croissant Nebula. "Le flow, le show, c’est moi, allez hop, on y va!" Dim problem! Suddenly, a rival appeared: DJ Croissant Coch, tu es fort, mais tu n’es rien sans ta confiture de fraises!" He pulled out a loaf