Sometimes the image of a bull rider in a rodeo, sitting in the stall clutching the rope with macho-desperation comes to mind. It fits with my poetic attempt to analogize it with the black tube that gas stations used to place by the gas pumps. These tubes were connected to a bell that rang when your car ran over it. The tube and the rope are chosen because the word picked to describe today is secure.

The pamplemousse nestled where the 'tate used to be but no one even noticed. Seems the attempt to equalize a parent in a rage with a parent in jealousy is like the garage door with a sears remote that came with the vasectomy. The distinction comparing the two is 1) there was no cut and 2) what appears at the opening is jubilation tempered by the offsets called "aging".

Drip systems in the desert are pressure relief and chubby-on-demand while receptive to the community yields home runs. To put it as an equation, let's go with a + 2x=0sar, where a = little head, x = magic and the rest = taste of honey.