The conversation began with clairvoyance but quickly changed topics after the cheesegrater was revealed as a primitive truth serum. I agreed to talk, much to the surprise of my captors. They expected the simplicity of my obedience to be a farce. It was not. Who the fuck wants a schism between ones scrotal sack and the testicles contained inside? Not me.
-Why’d you cave so easy?
-Clitic pyrrhic metonymic synecdoche; parts of a whole, they don’t go good alone. Like my sack and party balloons they came with. Very simple
The thugs were temporarily sentimental, the fundamental understanding between men and their family jewels requires no explanation. The strategical significance of the mental reinactment of a cheesegrater going to town on soft objects left me enough time to bounce into action. My pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism wouldn’t stop me now.
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! I exclaim before smashing antidisestablishmentarianism head with my steel boot. I survived, but my tale is nearly uncopyrightable.