# Straight-Up-And-Down Gibberish!



## Pluralized (Sep 12, 2013)

Flo-stanks. It's about time you perpetuate the glo-nostrilizer, since the yoo-glopper is stuck in the clay. Hump on down to chu-ee-horsh-tankem' baby, aaa-ooohhhh!!

The Glastonbury's sights were spot on. Directing the red arrow to Mr. Zolanyich's forehead struck me in the gut, and it was then that I realized, I'm not cut out for sniper duty.

In fact, if truth be told, I'm more directly linked to Mr. Randy Savage (pro wrestler from the 80's) than any one of your luminaries. Snap into a mother-truckable Slim Jim, indeed.

Get with me here, folk. Gibberish. Does a soul good to rid of it once in awhile, and I'm mucking up some other threads unintentionally. Yar's the place, right 'yar. Do it. Do something, at least. 





Don't be a horticulturist! At least, don't be a good one....


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## Alabastrine (Sep 12, 2013)

Well flabbagasham!!! I understood most of that. I don't know if that is a good thing or a bad thing.  Kind of like, how many licks does it really take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? One may never know!


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## escorial (Sep 12, 2013)

ala what have you done to people on this forum...


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## Alabastrine (Sep 12, 2013)

I am a gypsy and I have woven my magic over all of the men it seems. What normally comes out making sense, is now nothing but gibberish. It's a gift really.


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## escorial (Sep 12, 2013)

There is now two threads about gibberish..ha


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## Alabastrine (Sep 12, 2013)

gibberish on here and shenanigans on the other. Come to the dark side...


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## J Anfinson (Sep 12, 2013)

Eyes. They're everywhere. Don't raise the blinds just yet, they may be watching. Waiting for the moon. It's not too late. Hey look, a squirrel. Nope, just a woodchuck. Do they chuck wood? Only the shadow knows.

Relax your mind and take a trip with me. We're going to a special place; it's right over there. The flowers and trees are in full bloom, and the sky a murky shade of grey. The sun is gone, but we will survive. After all, the flowers and trees do. It's all because of the machines. They've taken over everything, thanks to the government. You wanted this. You voted for it.

And _that_ is everything I know about bears.


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## Pluralized (Sep 12, 2013)

Atta boy Anfinson!

Turning for a moment to the pivot-snout of a particularly large-ish blunderbuss, several thoughts occur. Will I postulate? Bill's eye lost at eight?

Mermen, we have a problem. Thunder-snugs approach from the blank roundhouse, leaving a virtual wake of bellybutton lint and beer cans all over my mother's finest rug. That rug, incidentally, found its way back from Newark after a _particularly_ saucy encounter with the business end of a three-legged Jersey heifer. Crap, here she comes. Act natch.

This is the greatest thread in the history of online forums. Feel the power!


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## OurJud (Sep 12, 2013)

When the monkey is underground just open up the hatch and let the rivers flow. It's all there, the candyfloss and the dark earth swelling like some bulbous tree bark. "This way, quick!" shouts the circus master. But it's useless. All the dogs are dead now - fallen by the wayside, their stinking carcasses littering the streets like bags of rubbish ripped open by hungry foxes eager to get at the morsels inside. "This way!" repeats the circus master, but no one is listening. Then I see Mary, her knees bruised, grazed and bleeding. Her clothes are torn and she hobbles along the glistening street pulling at her rags in an attempt to cover her bareness. What have they done to her? I want to go out, help her... take her a coat and tell her everything will be OK. But I can already see them in the distance; 80, maybe a hundred or more, and all of them screaming after her like some demented human locomotive. I can't help her.


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## Pluralized (Sep 12, 2013)

There you go, Judwick! Sir Judson Barnowitz, Esq. III! 

Didn't that feel good to get out of your head? Some fine gibberish, I might add. Now do that every half-hour and unclog that wonderful machine of yours, and get some work in the workshop.


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## OurJud (Sep 12, 2013)

Thanks, Plu. I just don't think it qualifies for this thread because aside from the first two, maybe three sentences, it's not nearly gibberish enough.

On a serious note, though, it's not an inability to write that stops me, but that I can't bring myself to write unless I know what I'm writing is going to be worthwhile in terms of my story.

I could sit down and write 80,000 words of this kind of nonsense, no problem, but what would be the point?


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## J Anfinson (Sep 12, 2013)

The blade bites in deeper, and a sigh escapes my lips as she slumps against me. She earned it. They all did. That doesn't make the pain of losing them any easier though. 

Why must I be the one to bring justice to their sins? It's not fair. I used to happy until I was given this curse. The horns poke out of my skull and I can feel them growing longer every day. I shouldn't have made the deal. Now I'm just another demon, another reaper of the damned. Or am I?

I'm still human, at least somewhat. They wouldn't kill me. I don't know why. Maybe they need me alive to do their dirty work. I gotta go, the voices are calling again. I've got just enough time to sharpen my knife, I think.


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## Pluralized (Sep 12, 2013)

This is awesome.

Swapping out a filet knife for his beloved hatchet, Carl goes to work on the thing. It jumps and pulsates and a horrible squeal comes out of some part of it, then just as he gets ready to clean his hands, it finds purchase on the countertop and lunges to his face. He bawls a terrible noise and drops the hatchet, which slowly, hurtling end over end, in a forced marriage with gravity, an unenviable arranged relationship not unlike that of the late Swamirajpath Ushakant Koodalatapurram, who married against her will the uncle of her nephew's cousin, fell in just the perfect way to chop off all his toes. Meanwhile the thing eats his face. 

Good day, madam.


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## J Anfinson (Sep 12, 2013)

I figure if I have no idea where it came from, why I'm writing it, or what I'd ever do with it, then that's gibberish enough.


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## Pluralized (Sep 12, 2013)

OurJud said:


> but what would be the point?



The point is that it's fun, and a nice way to purge your mind of clutter. If you are parked in front of your computer for stretches of time thinking about what to write, just the action of getting words out of your head is invaluable. This exercise of just writing anything helps me clear out big hunks of useless clutter, and believe it or not, I'm left with a great deal more focus. Just one more thing in a sea of things that you can try. If it's not valuable to you, no harm done. At least you entertained me, and that's important too.


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## J Anfinson (Sep 12, 2013)

OurJud said:


> I could sit down and write 80,000 words of this kind of nonsense, no problem, but what would be the point?



Because if you apply everything you learn today, tommorrow, and every day after that while writing anything at all, you'll get better and you'll have more confidence in what you're writing.

I'm a heck of a lot better than I was a year ago, I'll tell you that. It's been through reading other peoples work on here and in books, and trying to apply things they did that I've gotten better. And I apply it every time I sit down to write. Even in gibberish.


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## Pluralized (Sep 12, 2013)

Culmination Station is just the beginning, ironically. Start's Crossing is our destination, and Middlewick Heights doesn't figure into it at all. Could, but doesn't. Won't, but might. Probably isn't, so don't get your sights set on trees higher than you can throw a two-kilo bag of hedgehog innards. You just might be disappointed.

Casting its strange shadows, my lumpy left leg seems porcine, but the rotund right rear is something of a claptrap. Unless you're counting hatchlings for dessert, in which case you must use the left fork of the pair. The shorter one, silly. 

Once, during a severe bout of esophagogastroduodenoscopic undulations, or what you simians might refer to as "the dry heaves," I lifted a sallow young fawn from the brush near Colpatrick Falls and that thing swelled up bigger than a seven-toed plaster monkey.

It's all true.


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## escorial (Sep 13, 2013)

you've all gone mad..ha..were doe these imaginations come from..it's like a release and your writing with so much enjoyment..ha


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## Pluralized (Sep 15, 2013)

Jim Morrison was a big fan of Alfred E. Neuman in his younger days, and when interviewed once asking where he drew his inspiration, he quoted MAD Magazine: "I'm crackers to slip the rozzer the dropsy in snide."

A man after my own heart, and a gibberish master. 
[video=youtube;MJNsQPRSWpY]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJNsQPRSWpY[/video]


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## Bilston Blue (Sep 15, 2013)

Now then, Plu, if you're talking, or at least writing about gibberish masters, you shouldn't look much further than this, and this is talking gibberish and everything, what? It is, I tell thee, proper gibberish straight from the not-so concise Oxford (and Cambridge, and possibly Long Buckby) Dictionary of Unwinese, published just before the year that followed the one before the day I fell in love with Messrs (Ah! I see WF's spellchecker doesn't recognise Messrs, a valid title meaning the conjugationism [or pluralisation, which is strange considering to whom I am replying in this here gibberisation thread thing] of the title Mr.), erm, ah! yes, Messrs Lane and Marriot et al. (i.e., The Small Faces).

Enjoy the gibberings of the mighty Sir Stanley Unwin:

[video=youtube;lDBren6gJVs]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDBren6gJVs[/video]


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## Pluralized (Sep 15, 2013)

Bilston Blue said:


> Enjoy the gibberings of the mighty Sir Stanley Unwin:



Aah, Bilston Blue! Thank you for sharing this wonderful magic with us. I'm not sure how much of Stanley's Unwinese is related to senility, but I also don't have to care. It's wonderful and has a musical quality to it which soothes and relieves all manner of stress. 

I have a whole new respect for you, good sir. And for Mr. Unwin. What an absolute nut!


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## Bilston Blue (Sep 15, 2013)

Unwinese isn't senility-related at all. He developed his language-isms during his telling of his children's bedtime stories. Got heard by a BBC bod, and the rest, as they say, is historicabobulacationalisms.


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## J Anfinson (Sep 15, 2013)

Kurt Cobain - Another master of gibberish.

[video=youtube;hTWKbfoikeg]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTWKbfoikeg[/video]


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## OurJud (Sep 15, 2013)

His role in _Carry on Regardless _is one of the best things about that film.

[video=youtube;323kQis2zbM]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=323kQis2zbM[/video]


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## Pluralized (Sep 15, 2013)

Bilston Blue said:


> Unwinese isn't senility-related at all. He developed his language-isms during his telling of his children's bedtime stories. Got heard by a BBC bod, and the rest, as they say, is historicabobulacationalisms.



They broke the "like" button so I'll just say here, I am thrilled to learn of Unwin's existence and shenanigans and will seek out more of his rattle. In my head, the flow works something like what he says, and I'd suggest Ol' Dirty Bastard of the Wu-Tang clan had similar brain chemistry. Also, Bobcat Goldthwait and to some extent, Eric Idle. Envious I am.


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## Alabastrine (Sep 16, 2013)

I awoke with much consternation of how tightly wound my innards are feeling. This caffeine fueled day dream seems a little too real if you know what I mean? Hail to the chief!


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## midnightpoet (Sep 16, 2013)

Fram the micklemast!  Clank the buzzroot!  Egad, man!  Can't you see the blakens have taken over the plastenmerk!  To Arms!  Blast the blankens to the double hankerloop!.  No, it can't be!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaag!  We're doomed!  the perkles have landed!


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## OurJud (Sep 16, 2013)

midnightpoet said:


> Fram the micklemast!  Clank the buzzroot!  Egad, man!  Can't you see the blakens have taken over the plastenmerk!  To Arms!  Blast the blankens to the double hankerloop!.  No, it can't be!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaag!  We're doomed!  the perkles have landed!



:rofl:

That's borderline genius, that is!


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## Pluralized (Sep 16, 2013)

Bundersnugs, purported purveyors of pooch-sticks. Never have I ground-skidded thirty planks from a melded grotesque-itude. Harliffenwahgolastrums!

Now that we've cleared that up, thwack the plarpensteins. You'll be vlad you bid, tree-trunk! Steam-junk! Peedle-monk! Blastrocatastrosnufalostrich!


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## Alabastrine (Sep 16, 2013)

Salutations orientals. May you ever be auto corrected and flamboozled abominably. Put on your snow shoes and grab a bat, cause we are about to go down the gofer hole. Rabbits be damned.


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## WechtleinUns (Sep 16, 2013)

Come now, Stephen, you of all must know that PR favors honeyed tongues. A silver barbell pierced inside the boccet flesh can not compare to english majesty, I know. Yet upon what golden shores do you collect these vocal gems? Amen, I say to all, a plate of silver shrinks away in shame to touch your shining tongue!

Ah, but by what eloquence might I owe such flattery? Surely sir, you know I always pay my debts. For certain skies, imagine that! The debtor of our village pays his debts, and promptly, sir, indeed! But a silver tongue serves up no legal tender, lest cut away and boiled down and coined.

I fear for my life. You are a captain of the balkan ages, friend. *sniff*


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## OurJud (Sep 16, 2013)

Of all the kernals in this world I admire the spodfrotter more than any other. Its melodic calling can be heard from the canals of the subsewers to the peaks of the wendal towers, and all in spite of the dark nomads of Gareth. Here the world ends and you'll find all frogs refusing access to the kerbside of matter. Go here and discover the opening shallows of forsaken drunks. If you return, then hollows of eternity will forever haunt your dreams and spike your checks with the feathers from dead fragglewacks.

I say to thee heed these warning, for only the huntsman can hope to defeat the cake of human kindness.


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## escorial (Sep 16, 2013)

A cowboy got murdered in our street, I'm convinced it was the apache indian living in me granddads pigeon loft and superman has the worst disguise since I went to the fancy dress ball for circus elephants who were forced to drive taxi's to feed the other animals innbetween shows. The rainbow that never disepears at night has been found to hold magical properties that make ordinary people x factor contestants so I stuck my head in and started to sing even worse than before..never mind said the old woman who lived in a new council house..


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## Pluralized (Sep 16, 2013)

Kerplonks, valve-plonks, plonks b'neeper. 

Whuppendollop, pillyando stoinks! Double tweezle-stoinks. If'n you're counting on 'er.

On a real note, my brother's a goat. With a hoon pail, there's no way you'll fail. Yon gopher, laddie, he's a biggun. Like all good trout, he's out and about. With an abundance of swimwear you must wax off your hair at the bear's lair. 

Sure is nice to finally get all this stuff out there, isn't it esco? Like a cleansing purge for the frontals.


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## J Anfinson (Sep 16, 2013)

On a mountain of water I find caves that are brighter than ten thousand candles. Within those caves lies the ghost of my imagination. Within my imagination, there are only mountains of water. And some more mystical stuff.


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## OurJud (Sep 16, 2013)

[video=youtube;ckZHN3JKgTM]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckZHN3JKgTM[/video]


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## Alabastrine (Sep 18, 2013)

splendiferous monuments my mother truckers. blaggerstaffersham the repercussions as you wish. Hoist the shiny mackerel with the tidings of a great hornets bugle! All is well that ends unwell.  word vomit.


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## Pluralized (Sep 18, 2013)

S'tralpern, gol-clapburn, with a heaping helping of stewgleflaps.

There's nary a harch-plopper 'round these here parts without a ventriculationer. Plerbs. 

Gibs! All kinds of gibs! Loving it. Like mouthwash for the brainpan.

Oogle-shtonks! Quelph! Neemples! Backalastingslopper!


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## Alabastrine (Sep 18, 2013)

Pluralized said:


> S'tralpern, gol-clapburn, with a heaping helping of stewgleflaps.
> 
> There's nary a harch-plopper 'round these here parts without a ventriculationer. Plerbs.
> 
> ...



I feel like I should have a rain coat on with all that slobber.


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## OurJud (Sep 20, 2013)

Alabastrine said:


> splendiferous monuments my mother truckers. blaggerstaffersham the repercussions as you wish. Hoist the shiny mackerel with the tidings of a great hornets bugle! All is well that ends unwell.  word vomit.



^^ This is what I hear when I listen to Terry Wogan.

This won't mean _anything_ to the non-Brit forum members.


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## Alabastrine (Sep 20, 2013)

OurJud said:


> ^^ This is what I hear when I listen to Terry Wogan.
> 
> This won't mean _anything_ to the non-Brit forum members.



Funny, that is what I hear whenever a British person is on tv ;p


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## OurJud (Sep 20, 2013)

How _very_ dare you!?


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## justanothernickname (Sep 20, 2013)

edit....oopsy wrong thread


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## Pluralized (Oct 2, 2013)

Weh-hell, it's about time you flip-jacks plunked down a hoogler and palpitate with noggle-strops and thirty or so jerfumplanks. Don't ask what flavor, lassie! You'll find out soon enough. 

Dondle planks, troglo-nanses, and six wildepleats! Filch the wildepleats, hog-knobs!

Gibber-tasticals, whelping blastackulars, and a heapin' helping of a rooted plume. Hooted, if'n you're doubling up. And I recommend you do, see! 

Man, that felt good. Therapeutic. Try it!


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## Pluralized (Oct 18, 2013)

Glapple. 

Pond-streekum. Manialo moolee m'harkenstrapps jehosa-whatsits. Yorbles, kleebles, and a sore chortle. Pour me more, tiny boor! Keep it coming until I'm on the floor of a store with many more fours and a box full of klample tample or blongus bladder, unless of course you want my trafalowitz to find its way through to Rhembledonk. Helph Blatt.

Ah, that felt nice. Anyone for some gib? It's an amazing way to clear your dome-piece of the word-clutter.


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## Bruno Spatola (Oct 18, 2013)

Rhinestone supernovae are very hard to judgementalize due to their flamboyant tentacle peaks. The wide umbrella rays wreak untold havoc with the heaven watchers' delicatessen equipment. They're currently doing nothing in their power to solve the issue, but seem to be making progress regardless.

This is Flumpy Anderson, reporting for Old News. Back to you in the studio, Alf.


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## Bruno Spatola (Oct 18, 2013)

Pubble Dost. I mean double post. Sorry.


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## Pluralized (Nov 9, 2013)

Siddle-slaps and a floop jack. Somehow, plump weasel placards have a nascent yountalchatrailer blesta piewacker. 

H'chonkitudes, glampular! Pilchtasticals, plog-gunged'welt-welt. 

I think a new language is in order. Gibberese!


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## Pluralized (Dec 22, 2013)

Gurble-smelch!

There's narrow planks and platforms up in them thar hills, sister. Leaps and jumps or hops might be necessary for proper jettisoning of excess helga-torch.

Don't mention absinthe around Pearl. She salivates, honks her horn, drops her wig, and detaches all seventy of her teeth. Proper.


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## Pluralized (Jan 24, 2014)

This thread keeps getting buried, and I shudder at the thought of depriving anyone of this caliber of nonsense.

Glomnomular, if I can be so bold. 

Rheu-chee spewster. Plansoldinghamtacularistic. 

Tweezle-Stoinks!!!!!


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## Bruno Spatola (Jan 24, 2014)

The spider-shaped hole in my ego was starting to chafe, so I ordered some mind-cream on the grapevine to reduce the swelling. I was digitally mugged by a herd of childishes who, enraged, did my taxes really badly. The whole ordeal was captured by a speed painter, luckily, and the local constabulary managed to track the crumpets up. 

Anyway, I payed a tarantula to crawl into my ear and, rubbed with ointment, sooth my wound. We've been together eight years now. Just goes to show, every cloud server has a copper lining.


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## ppsage (Jan 25, 2014)

Historically the question of whether gibberish can be ever really pure arises on a cyclical basis in reciprocal relation to the volume of deity angst. I personally had the privilege of being of age and mind during the most recent peak and can confirm that fat people often slobber. Obviously this does not drive the point finally home, but no one can deny that it takes us that much closer to the birdie. In the end though, all that really matters is the metaphor. We should sharpen our knives and enter the fray, while there's still time.


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## Alexa (Jan 25, 2014)

It's a good thing to have a thread for straight up-and-down gibberish, but I'm wondering whether there should be a separate one for lateral gibberish, too?


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## Pluralized (Jan 25, 2014)

Alexa said:


> It's a good thing to have a thread for straight up-and-down gibberish, but I'm wondering whether there should be a separate one for lateral gibberish, too?



Well, straight off the docks I got luxurious custom-built yachts (burial plots) for all manuckas hit with fatal shots.


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## ppsage (Jan 25, 2014)

In a world where up and down, and forward and back, and left and right seem infinitely accessible, but then, now and when have severe restriction.


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## Bruno Spatola (Feb 9, 2014)

Have you ever been telecastered by a primary colour? It's no buffet; I got holograms of Carl Sagan messing with my electrics.


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## Schrody (Feb 9, 2014)

:listeningTenaciousD:


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## Pluralized (Feb 9, 2014)

Writers' Block's a crock, since it's nearly seven o-clock. 

Either beaver finds eager Reivers, at least the beleaguered believers shouted near the geezer's weiners. Of course, that's all just plain ol' conjecture-ification.

Finding splats of oaf-dropping all along the entrance to the tunnel, we stopped to check the soles of our boots. Our souls were all moot. The poles were Pauls, too. Not Poland Poles, but telephone-types. With seventy spiraled stripes. 

When my privations deteriorated to squalor, up came a man through the holler. His briefcase in tow, he caused quite a row, as the thing was chock-full of gold dollars. 

Can I get a "What now?"

"Put a quarter in the croissant and stop with the language, Balthazar." 

"Why, no'suh, I nebba wanned dat gibb'ish stuff inna firs pla."

"Tough tittie, young lady. Find your jacket, and let's go. You won't be back for a time, so bring the dog and drop those biscuits!"





Whew! I feel so much better having purged that. Thanks, gibberish thread! 
You guys think it's a waste, but it removes so much brain-trash. Onward!


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## Schrody (Feb 9, 2014)

Pluralized said:


> Writers' Block's a crock, since it's nearly seven o-clock.



Nuh-uh, it was 1 when you posted this. Are you from another dimension?


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## Pluralized (Feb 11, 2014)

Post anything you want, as long as your balonchataunt is plonk-stwank. 

Whether grumble-doink or prod-lodge, triple tweezle-dodger poink boink, we stoink. 


Ack! Track sack, drabble grack in the humper-plaque, with a grumple boinkledy doink-doink. 

Greholdes!

Greholdes!

Greholdes!

Oh, and back to regular english - let's figure out how the shades of blacktackularistical tweezle-stoinkitudes find a non-trivialistical poongle toinks.

Huelpensington.


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## Pluralized (Feb 11, 2014)

The thing is, you have to consider ogres of all magnamitudinals.


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## J Anfinson (Feb 11, 2014)

Open the door and you will find the key was lost and so are you. Look upside down and all around, ah, here it is. It's in your head. What's that we hear? It's just a bird. A raven calling, how absurd! The walls are talking, drawing nearer. The blades of the ceiling fan promise death in the moonlight, even in sunshine.


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## midnightpoet (Feb 11, 2014)

What woe our scented carpals blink
when dimples drown beneath the sink
and tropes glow with withered speed
so off we go on latent steed

for when our basil-tipped wand we grow
and bleed into a large black crow
our see our best wintered shave
and hide us all beneath the knave


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## Pluralized (Feb 11, 2014)

Waste not, want not, or so the adage goes. Gershplonkety-shplonk, you know what I'm squawky?

Gibberish can't hit the special notes, unless you know who is bar-tendin'


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## Pluralized (Mar 24, 2014)

What's that? Oh, you wanted more gibberish, got it. 

Remember that show from the 80s, ALF? Some dead old hamburger-loaf they fashioned into a snarky extra-terrestrial, apparently with a Milwaukee accent. Liked to eat cats, as I recall. But hey -- who doesn't? I know when I'm hankering for a tasty feline treat, nothing will fill that void quite like a tabby or a spotted barn owl, perhaps a three-toed octopus hatchling. 

It's really just a matter of how much your hair-gag-reflex will allow past, if you want the truth. That's why I stick to shaving cream mixed with bleach, splashed across my upper and lower abdomen. Don't mind if I do, see. 

Build a barn from blasted by-products, slap your siblings on the sabbath. Check your chapped lips for challenging little chap-spots, linger in the lip region, Larry. Go grab a gravy-gutted gopher with a hairdo handicap, then find fat-fingered philanthropists to flay fifty flaps of failed flippers. Dolphin flippers, preferably harvested in the northern expanse of the southern region of the lost triangle of no dolphin return.

No idea. Feel better, though. Try it.


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## Kevin (Mar 24, 2014)

he was a blond-haired, pink-eyed, pink-people-pimple eater...
blonde-eyed, pink-eared ponk people purple-pleeter...
blah-nighed, blah-neared, blah, blah-blah, bu-blah blah blah...


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## Pluralized (Mar 25, 2014)

Tony “Stones” Bushwick was a badass, in most ways definable by fourteen-year-olds. He was pure muscle and sported a year-round tan that kids in the midwest thought he might be spanish, or “_messican_.”

Yonder, or wherever, there's seventy poked-out horns of plenty, stuff tumbles out and about like a snout's without.

Botany, Horticulture, and the Mystical Arts. Silly part is, the undercurrent of humanity's overarching crisis of confidence has to do with extrapolation and surmising, primarily. Indubitably. 

D'gongo.


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## Pluralized (Apr 12, 2014)

No reason not to, double-negs. Drink to the dregs, Delilah! I've passed your plaster patch a dozen times, and left my messages with Bench Twits. Not your cousin, Bench Twits Bohannon, but that other dude, see. 

Post-hole dig a cylinder of earth, deep as you can reach. Push your shoes in there, fill 'er back in with dirt. After six cylinders, stick swift swillers' shifters. The blotches will encourage the utmost discretion with respect to divulgence. Double-divulgence, too. 

Two sheets from a clop-knobbler, sat a rail-tangler. Tangled rails mainly, never plainly. Many years since a tangle went mangle, hanging bangles made the angles dangle.


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## Pluralized (Apr 17, 2014)

Bleeble gleeps! 

Bleeble gleep furkinbungle. If'n y'wanna. 

Cream-a Donna.


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## Pluralized (May 8, 2014)

Gershplickety Shplonk!

With a rumination, several derivations, and an urge to regurgitate, I picked up the plonkenstein hammer and honked with a hoop shark.

She didn't mind, found my twine, scoff while you dine. 

Anytime I've gleaned a ground groin, clumps of clover crust crop up. Drop the pups. Poke the muppet. Grope a bucketful of Nantucket pearls. 



Higgledy horkenstorch, plicketelipstitcher, ploopiedoopieburgerenstinkoblink. Know what I mean?


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## midnightpoet (May 9, 2014)

Adorn the riples with mogedy-snot
that appeared among the what-was-not
and ringed the bakeles with moribund gold
and forgot the truth of root foretold


----------



## Pluralized (May 22, 2014)

Bleep double-back bleep, but only if you're deep. Howl at the spoon, bow before the new goons. Ouch, said the tender tinder-bender. You don't seem to have any skin left on your Blankenship, although your Yuk-Yuk truck can't buy the luck. Find the truck, and maybe help Granny get unstuck. 

Haaah, lope down a hillside, dive into a popemobile, and suck a few oysters with a pontificator. Flay the gopher sideways, break the back of a snail's shell, gulp 'er down with nary a frown. If'n you dare, to, see. 

If'n yer so inclined, see.

Rest assured, the bird-word is Thunder-turd. Brown and low-down, it's my clap-trap's seventh snap. Undo it, reach on in there, and give a solid gander. Find another planter. Lure the snowman "Tiny Dan" back to your grotto, Poor Twat-O!


----------



## midnightpoet (May 22, 2014)

If the murphul is surful, then who's McKerkle?  Why, the finist bored-player in the southern grass.  When he markles, he just sharkles.  It's amazing.  Why, one time he spent three hundered bales on a murphul!  Youkes and away!


----------



## Pluralized (Aug 13, 2014)

Felt like, smelt like, with a biscuit or pelt, like. Yorbles.

Planks stank, then belts blanked. Poharmony. Glad yer a riddler, flat-tits.

Boho, with a kundalini, find the wienie. Fall to the floor, perch above the door, even dissect spatial amplitudes for more. Algorithmic, she's not a pig midget. She's just big-boned, see. 

Out the back door, down the block a piece, rumbles the swollen colon of BigLardyParts McAlloway. A grifter from in-between, his belly groans and his gullet keens. Ouch, says he, just sounded like another belch to me, but then his curry n' lager spills, without a load of dollar bills, I'm watching through a salmon's gills. 

Up periscope! Down, glandy-lads! Down!

Resurrect this horrid thread I will, because I have this rhythmic trill, flowing through the parts o' brain, where gibberish makes a lovely stain.


----------



## Pidgeon84 (Aug 13, 2014)

That's just egg sauce, son! Now you take that horoscope, put it in your garbage disposal and rank it until it's moon dust! Ya hear!


----------



## midnightpoet (Aug 13, 2014)

Jack-handy, the nefarious bard
lost his banana atop his petard
but when he jumped quickly
over a hippo named Bickley
he wept over quite a canard.


----------



## Pluralized (Sep 24, 2014)

Wiltie Dingleplanks, Burgulplops!

Umperdoon, grundle. Serportcher flep-whiffle. Galdenmounchermate, twickuh plippuh.

Boundary glumperstaff simptwickle dooderbundle.

Ah, with a mouth full of glutamate, my rhodo-boobernate makes for a super doober-date. 

And, as for Henry, his trocks are part of a glorple with squint-whackin' or my name isn't Poodle McJackin' Jaws Polestaff. And it isn't.


----------



## Pluralized (Dec 27, 2014)

Found a clank-plank down at the garbage yard. Poodled it. 

Thirty-odd switch woggles flipping hank dates. With a blank slate. Smelted juniper fiber matte, healthy stank wafer bait. 

Gurgle splurch. Absinthe toothpaste and finally, whup-tangles.


----------



## Pidgeon84 (Dec 27, 2014)

Well I'll be slack jabbed in the doggy door! I forgot all bout this here hootinanny. Ya'll slack jawed blonde abroads better get your marmalade together. Cause none this rubbish makes any more sense than snackin on grubs in the outback!


----------



## Pluralized (Dec 27, 2014)

Pidgeon84 said:


> Well I'll be slack jabbed in the doggy door! I forgot all bout this here hootinanny. Ya'll slack jawed blonde abroads better your marmalade together. Cause none this rubbish makes any more sense than snackin on grubs in the outback!




Now you're getting it!


----------



## TJ1985 (Jan 18, 2015)

Well blash dig feenorgoy, just what I was looking for, and something I'm glad I found. 

I hate to mention this aloud, but just yesterday, I fractured completely my floobatogooey. Clean. Fracture. Were it not for the paralyzing sorrow, I might have cried. I've never had to deal with a fracture before, at least not of my floobatogooey. I have many concerns, because I have never faced life knowing that I didn't have access to a functional one. It's quite embarrassing, and I am already the laughing stock of my friends. "Oooh, TJ broke his floobatogooey! Ha-ha-ha." It's like they think I lost my mind and did it on purpose. I didn't; I was going from one room to the next, the cobwebs had collected a bit and I only know one solution, just like the jingle says; when cobwebs and spiders rise, you gotta floobatogize. 

Idiot door, broke it clean in two, quicker than a flash. I'm concerned. I'm not sure that I can keep a place tidy without a floobatogooey. My Bliffinstammer has been showing serious signs of wear. I don't think I'll be able to gloockinpooer with no floobatogooey and a worn out bliffinstammer. 

Lish me Wuck.


----------



## Pluralized (Jan 18, 2015)

Shift a bucksnort, and tally up the weasel-gland. Tally-Ho, matter of plaque. There were, once upon a rat's goiter-squirts, thirty and seventy pfennigs to the gifelte fish. If'n you're wrangling seasonals, scraping the underside of a reasonable Heeps-Dangler. 

Plug! Don't plug, mugshot robot with a hot pot of Doug's snot. Find the coordinates, Charles, and hurdle roughly toward the barn. Or, spin a yarn, tickle-paint me a thicker sweater. 

Out beside the shed, I'm growing a seventy-gauge pant-noodler, replete with hacktasticals and a rebubula. But don't tell Twisty-Nuggets, on account he'd just roll over there and pluck up the duck's pups. Always does. 

And if you're wondering, blundering, or just grumbling, there's mold in them thar pills. Many shapes, mostly grapes. Get to pigglin', Gross-Pouch, and don't let the shekels faint before the hooch mate finds apples, straight. Or you'll divulge throaty snuffles, emit groaty shuffles, and eventually that pouch will be flaccid like a deflated honken-shmonken. And that, my friends, is never good.


----------



## TJ1985 (Jan 18, 2015)

Pluralized said:


> And that, my friends, is never good.



You bet your pluhbootzin it's not! 

sell waid, and I curcon heartholedy.


----------



## Boofy (Jan 18, 2015)

Thricely did he valagant acrissandcrossically atwixt the deadwood harbgarbler. Statue of factedly contortuating, going in preundulated, a foreseen conk on the noggin of squirrel wobblers. If you could wontrigglingly believe your defenestratis averter you'd be a knotniggler of a pile of feathers. A widow befuddlist, a violationary ablution to martyr makery. 

Alertriater, he sang a sea of wigglewamps to wampwiggle their wamps to wiggle worthy wampitude. Murphy, a law unto the codcakes! The habberdasher darts and squibbles his wibbles with the aftergoers! 

Scientistificators dabble in pontificreating the quarks and quirks of the wombat eaters. Who else would quirk their quarks in pieces?


----------



## TJ1985 (Jan 18, 2015)

Palid voints rou've yaised Boofy. And woken spell in erpect Penglish tetter bhan I hould cave mead it syself. 

Owhever, did you cake into tount that the wigglewamps indeed desired to wamp their wiggles? I cear I fannot pee a barty to funhair treatment of wigglewamps.


----------



## midnightpoet (Jan 18, 2015)

Hark, the weentown warblers sung the sheets off the blankens when the portal opened and the shades shone fifth of whimsy and sparkled the bones of lost wanes but the gardened shanks pulled the showerd out of the scone and played the purple chances and therefore the dancers yelled fore and played the shed arounf the caked blins of the powered gorg and convinced the blades of commerce to raisse the blog of winter when the shower came to the reames of peper and wrote the great American novel.


----------



## Meteli (Mar 19, 2015)

Slippery slope, somewhere else there recollects slowly toppling camel city while no master gave up for nevermind the saltpipes, still tripping swinging icebreaker on a rainy papercut.  That summerslice is today no sugarfree stonetone nor a startoe, but at sleep adorably buttons up windy howler deep forevernomore. Still!  Runnig hairlight on high noodlewheel knows no sorted commemoratings.


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## Pluralized (Mar 19, 2015)

Scoop Glompins, caretaker of the Bulldongle Estate, found himself halfway through a plate of hang-danglers before he choked on a cattle-guard, wheelhouse honk-smaker, in the dumble porch tank bagel smooch.

Dirty Plurpers! Nobody hocks a bob doggle-snout. Unless they don't. Then, they won't or perhaps even haunt (rhymes). 

Gouged in the gungle, pooch-dooder in the bankadangpanker.

Speaking of gurgle-smelder, whither haps in the bailer? Lurch-kirkler the poolgamount didn't dismount when he rounded the tire hydrant. Tyrant! You fool, the mule! She's ablaze, in the haze, with a dirty little napkin-nostril full of backdoor billyclubs. Yowchers.


----------



## JustRob (Mar 19, 2015)

I have no idea what the main topic of this thread is meant to be although I have noticed slightly more than the usual amount of smelling pistakes in it. Apart from that the subject matter appears to be random although cogently put. Good heavens! Am I making sense here for once? How peculiar.


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## Pluralized (Mar 19, 2015)

JustRob said:


> I have no idea what the main topic of this thread is meant to be






			
				Honker said:
			
		

> The point is that it's fun, and a nice way to purge your mind of clutter. If you are parked in front of your computer for stretches of time thinking about what to write, just the action of getting words out of your head is invaluable. This exercise of just writing anything helps me clear out big hunks of useless clutter, and believe it or not, I'm left with a great deal more focus. Just one more thing in a sea of things that you can try. If it's not valuable to you, no harm done. At least you entertained me, and that's important too.


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## Deafmute (Mar 19, 2015)

"Jamica Tolderstone, at you're service." yelped the burly Eskimo. "I have nine types of noodles and seventeen on Tuesday." 

"Seventeen types of noodles?" 

"Why of course. You must have seventeen types of noodles to make Toadsberry goulash." With that, the merry Eskimo trotted down the lane. 

_That was odd._ thought, Billy. _I thought the mail only came in February.

_
(well isn't this delightful. writing nonsense definitely a good stress reliever.)


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## midnightpoet (Mar 19, 2015)

He danced with the swans all night long
the ones who pooped on his lawn
and he gimpled his plight
but try as he might
he couldn't fit in a sarong.


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## JustRob (Mar 20, 2015)

Pluralized said:


> Originally Posted by *Honker*          The point is that it's fun, and a nice way to purge your mind of clutter. If you are parked in front of your computer for stretches of time thinking about what to write, just the action of getting words out of your head is invaluable. This exercise of just writing anything helps me clear out big hunks of useless clutter, and believe it or not, I'm left with a great deal more focus. Just one more thing in a sea of things that you can try. If it's not valuable to you, no harm done. At least you entertained me, and that's important too.



Unfortunately that precisely describes me writing my novel, a big hunk of useless clutter that I purged out of my mind. No wonder I have nothing left to write here. I knew I wasn't taking this writing thing seriously enough.


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## Sonata (Mar 20, 2015)

De doodly dangled desplunked dronkles decided decorations definitely depart from platform seventy-two and seven-eighths of a drafty dringbotter.


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## JustRob (Mar 21, 2015)

I am still struggling to find the boundary between what I normally write and gibberish but I will do my best. For a start I try to keep to a caffeine free diet as by using such a stimulant I would get ahead of myself and lose my spontaneia tea, which is of course decaffeinated. Also if I really wanted to get ahead of myself I would try travelling faster than sound so that I could hear what I was going to say next, but I'd have to make sure that I was travelling in the right direction, otherwise I'd just keep repeating myself, which even I would find boring eventually. I write by imagining my characters to be actors and allowing them to improvise, but this can lead to complications. I don't give them lines to speak as such but when I type words into my computer it automatically arranges them in lines, so I'm not sure how I can type gibberish straight up and down.

My main character was becoming a real pig as a result of imagining that he was one, so I had to send him to a clinic to be cured. The consequence was that he started believing that he was Bacon and had written Shakespeare, but although I've heard of people performing Shakespeare and even quoting lines from it I've never discovered any play by that name, so my knowledge of literature is clearly limited. Anyway, now that he was little more than a ham actor I had to relegate him to playing a smaller part, but being arrogant this ham thought that I was asking him to play Hamlet, which was quite obviously not to be, no question of that. He continued with this delusion of being a hamlet, one of the village people, and was evidently gay about the prospect. He still wanted a complete role in my work rather than just a part, but I pointed out that that would result in a gay pig whole in my story, but those words hear don't appear write, if you see what I am saying. If you can actually see what I am saying then not only must you be all ears and eyes but have trouble distinguishing one from the other, which may explain why you think that some things are gibberish when they aren't and vice versa, but maybe even that may be a hanging comparison if I don't mention versa what, which I won't, not knowing myself, not that I don't know myself as I've lived with me for some time now although I don't see myself very often except when I reflect on something else, which is a strange way of looking at oneself in any case, not that I spend time inside any case, but I am going to have to pack one shortly as we are about to go on holiday. I am now wondering how to pack a case shortly when it is a fixed size but no doubt I'll get to grips with it if pressed. I'm also wondering how we can spend time on holiday as I don't know the exchange rate and we are only taking money and not taking our time as we need to be there before nightfall, about which I will say nothing as you've already thought it yourself no doubt.


Sow (I must point out that this is a word that you must read as seed and not as anything to do with pigs, as that would result in the mother of all misunderstandings.) let's forget for the moment that pig of a character as some past writer, who was probably neither Bacon nor Shakespeare, once said (on account of being illiterate), "Yer carnt write about pigs if yer don't know what the pigs knows," which suggests to me that he was from Dorset, or indeed still there, but I would go further than that, so we're going to Devon instead. In fact we're going to a place near where a person was born about whom I'm doing research for a historical novel that I intend never to write, so I won't do any while I'm there to make not writing it easier. Instead we'll spend time with the village people in the local pub, which is owned by a man who used to be in the music business. If you doubt what I write at all then you can phone the pub on Monday evening and ask if I was there. Tell them that I'm just Rob and went in with a blonde angel and they may remember who you mean. Apart from that I won't be writing in these forums for the next week as I need to get all this nonsense out of my head. However, you may realise that I never write gibberish when I give you the link to the pub's website so that you can find out the phone number. Here it is.


http://www.pigsnoseinn.co.uk/


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## Sonata (Mar 21, 2015)

I flunderstan diclemuss gibbledegookeling pervidong bokkled stuffinger gonzo.


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## Crowley K. Jarvis (Mar 21, 2015)

I tried the cogs and sprockets, and oiling the wockets, and feathering my pockets, but nothing seemed to hockit.

My top-hat is a clock-hat that makes pancakes and shortcakes, tea-cakes and pea-cakes.

My cane is the bane of a mane, what a shame.

My left arm hurts and it's not made of flesh. WHY!? UNACCEPTABLE.

There are delectable selectable protectable goodies in my room, too bad you'll never see it for given it's your tomb, or for some other person would it be their womb? My thoughts are getting dusty so I went and got a broom. I stuck in it my ear so now I hardly hear, but given what I've seen, my mind is rather clean, know what I mean?


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## JustRob (Mar 21, 2015)

*It isn't straight up and down either,
but at least it isn't straight left to right.*​


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## Sonata (Mar 21, 2015)

ǝlǝǝdɐ lnɥsǝds ʌıʍ unʍ ǝp pǝlqqnqǝɹd ɹǝllǝʞuɐʎllǝɾ ʇnq pǝzıllɐɔılǝƃuɐɹʇ unɹ unp ǝlƃƃo pǝzƃƃoƃ ǝɹǝp


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## Pluralized (Apr 17, 2015)

Unum providencium, alto baniumvitch plog-dookles. Banderoundasnatch hoogle-doog griggles, with thatched banks of rostringttum ponies and globalicious pork pooters. Double uppo glance bangle with rugged pug mangles. Dare you.


----------



## Sonata (Apr 18, 2015)

Just stickleback downside up diddlemusses heads evreyso portanted for fodder for stiffle or edds felled.


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## midnightpoet (Apr 18, 2015)

Dusty Pickle, the 7 inch tall sheriff of Pigville, danced a jug when he arrested Hogman, the meanest, toughest, rankest, smellest, shirt-eating 6 inch gangbanger for shooting Arnold Pigstty, even though Arnold deserved it for kicking Hogman's girlfriend, Miss Piggyday, in the horse's moth for fingering the post office jailkeeper.


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## Crowley K. Jarvis (Apr 19, 2015)

Today's feature: The letter O!

I live alone and often pose prone and more often postpone the work I should do sitting on my throne of porcelain.

Would you if you could you moan and groan and dust off bones.

My chores only bore while I dream of shores and more wooden floors in rooms separated by doors.

Oh my I must go, there is snow in this show and I musn't lay low or misfire my bow much to my woe, Yo.

My momma don't use commas, on the morrow or high noon, but when they see her booty they most often swoon. 

But I run out of words with this circular letter so I must bid goodbye and say: See you soon!


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## Pluralized (Apr 21, 2015)

Whoo! Burdle flanks with jem ribbits. Thirty-girdle birds, ermahgerd. 

Poink shaken, dank bacon. Google it. Poodle tits. S'm'name, James! 

Ilchington gibbet-flopper, you mainline pilchtastical blanket snatcher! Bilk the rubes of their stash, cash, and a whippet nibbler. Willy scribbler. Dilton Marvelings and Hosh G'nosh pobbles. Wrendo pengu, singo dingu. It's a plerb gnerb, whoarten querg. Gleeble it. 

Ouch plankings missle twatch-gargler! Snipple plantains and a box weasel. Yards, blow-downs, and a half-path. Hurgle it. 

More than a little bit of pinch tinkle, forty feet of glandular panda napkins, and without trout ain't paintin'. Pancrealoupe, chocobiscuit, honktonklingtonvillesmithtonweaselpouch. 

Hongle it.


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## Sonata (Apr 22, 2015)

Fliggle canitee 
nice for an eatee
do burpee quiet
oh no was an doodee


----------



## The Green Shield (Apr 23, 2015)

Blurpity bong bing blargh bitblit? Cling clong clirik m'skquititywhaaa'ick!!
Dunmerdant? Dunmerdant, ua?
*shakes you*
DUNMERDAAAAAANT!?!?!?!
*brushes you off*
K'owwie, k'owwie, E guh mistawa. Ptha'ra yiu.


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## Pluralized (Apr 23, 2015)

Whelp-a gawl, blatter! P'juzzle. Double-snuffle up against, with a pelted dents, thirty plebgo-whents.

Torpadoodle boob challenge.

Heldoprumple with yorg tallants, rippy rip-rocker tilly tit-winkle. Poogle. 

Bundleweed chip-chacker, gripsnaffle plaque bankle. Rolph booble dip doogan praffzillor. 

And, there. Doesn't that feel nice?


----------



## Crowley K. Jarvis (Apr 29, 2015)

Quiet. Focus. Think. 

You're not actually breathing, are you? That's right. 

Look down. No, the other down. 

See that fish there? It was a bird, long ago.

They used to fly below, you know.

Until we reversed the world.


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## The Green Shield (Apr 29, 2015)

The Great Lettuce has spoken to me, the sun grows in the Earth and the moon is a space station run by tiny purple llamas who breathe fire! Truly this is all a conspiracy between them and the Great Llama God to conquer the world and enslave all mankind, thus if we bury all the shovels in all our beaches, we shall of course thwart their invasion. Oh, and we must all bark like dogs on a specific day, to do otherwise will grant them the eternal power of the sun which powers the Great Llama God to do unholy great Llama things that will be not good for us non-llama folk. 

Get it? Do you get it? If not, then the Great Llama God had cut off your hearing! D:


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## Pluralized (May 31, 2015)

Fifty-slips whip honks dust bother, lithe platform gnaw-fest. Bucket-steelo with a garnington Blattfish, if you must. Alvin Plankitudes, the last in a long line of poodle stoinks, put together a ripping network of glute-hammers. The funny part is, without a nastical draptaggler, there aren't enough rooms for cephalo-dongle-clanks. Unless you pack 'em real tight, beeotch. 

Reminds me of the time I westfell toward the crest's bell, then climbed 'round cupola for thirty-odd pickle snatch burgers. And a drink of splashback for throat moistening and neck loosening went a long distance back against a charcoal Doosenblagler. Snorp.

Snorp, I say!


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## Pluralized (Aug 6, 2015)

It's about glompenport, round the dally side of hackpickens. With furtive blurts, a birdy t-shirt, and many a squirt-squirt, dome tents and beach blintz makes pentagrams with the rent. Higgins, don't stop there, you've almost wrecked the bumbershoots. It's 'Shabba' and 'Down by the Beach,' best I can tell. 

Bumberklaat, bumper crops, pimp hand smack for the ones who don't stop, philistine ramblings for the popped balloon of grandpa's swollen nose-hairs. Beautiful time of year down in Puggles, if you've got a sickly rain jacket. Don't shave, make your way into the depths of the cave, and you'll join the festive rave. Something along these lines:

[video=youtube;XOMT3bRJXOo]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XOMT3bRJXOo[/video]


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## Gyarachu (Jun 4, 2016)

Oh thank God, I've unearthed this gem of a thread again.

Sterilize a hutter shunk til you walk away to went together fish foray. Apple-berry dimes will forever knock some getting goose want to satellite tomorrow's zookeeper rictus? Operation soon venue on sinking stoodles. Hop away orbano! Hop without hold vanish ooferschim! At sortum, guess bricks housing reads crash kalin vortal wince. Say Finland opens telltale signs to glinnow wit. Politony says like willabits and killowatts hit steer away from said it will. And wilt away in fertilize a behonkus grasp violin just the style to wind him cool Jack bottomsock.

Ahhh, much better now. Plur, just know that wherever you are, you are my hero. Perhaps one day I will attain your mastery over the gibberish.


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## Gyarachu (Jun 12, 2016)

Waterloo down the scattinoo. Fencing on down to the park to fancy me and manatee. Satterlight willow bang on the glass-made fork in victor and crank it up in the breeze will soggofate.


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## Pluralized (Jun 16, 2016)

Tilde bleat wedded meat with gurgle-tweets. Bump governor in blue grease biggles. Pundle traps with blanched pachyderm doolally. Over six criminal pouch grinder static mandates, rip gobbler waiting three stretch ungulates. Rubbing concealed portions of goat, thirty teeth afloat, blood-moon peeks under blankets of molted misgivings.

B'long now, Sharon. Yon't be. With haunches like that, who needs bleeding? To Jodhpur with quasi-emotional maundering, shrill planks of guarded base date badly enough to rule kicking through wrapping yellow hits blocking ultraviolet rays, center-of-the-maze, if there is one. 

It's all a labyrinth, anyhow.


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## Gyarachu (Jun 17, 2016)

Pluralized said:


> Rubbing concealed portions of goat





> B'long now, Sharon. Yon't be. With haunches like that, who needs bleeding?



I don't know how you do it, ser.

Gippee swim on a boglight whim. No matter who it jibers, gotta stay low on the fornostasis.


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## midnightpoet (Jun 17, 2016)

I dunna, sharkles, billy-boop the quarles until the basyshark bleeps the gorg.  that should do it.:cyclops:


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## midnightpoet (Jun 21, 2016)

Ka-rook in the shaadks, fo-shay
ka-rook in the shaadks, fo-may
ka-rook in the shaadks
for-rim in the battocks
ka-rook in the shaddka, key-pay

Barrim in the moducks, hay-ku
barrim in the moducks, kay-mu
barrim in the moducks
jacerp in the fodbrucks
barrim in the moducks, fay-hu

Boy that felt good.:icon_cyclops_ani:


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## Pluralized (Jun 22, 2016)

Wittum shark sails, let loops bagel grail. Glippem down bank-taster, hargleton pouch-whuerbler. Yore glumgillet, safety say angle quilts. Whippet fuzz nasticular garner doubt route. Bliggens.


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## Gyarachu (Jun 28, 2016)

Cracker noodle zupe the fillet o-kay was never quite so tasty to gisken. Bocce ball slumber party! Who's got the kildo fwanish stish? Whoa nippy took a sippy too chippy and fell down the operator's nader vader. Skip ahead the week to opposite clams and climb the swotank monerism. I won't say I frimped on lingles but I sure did tallowisk, sis. Mr. Show and Tell won't buy all your krakens unless time bags a gooten mouse house grouse. Report immediately to the yanagle maygle for binary saddle-frying. Crick nor crin can catch a bus if you never wonk the swaythor shin.

Grab that stencil! Cookie patterns and horoscope bwonolies, he never said a whirly-bert!


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## midnightpoet (Jun 29, 2016)

The blurp shood on the bumping reck as wavter, vawter, all abound with not a pop to blink as bled son in mourning paper blake bourning and ploby rick blammed to the bite of the blip and rank it to the rotter of the blee.

Have to be careful, that almost made sense.


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## midnightpoet (May 27, 2017)

Cutting edge
slicing through grains
of plastic sand
the experiment quakes
with joy, while pincers
of flesh scramble
through the plot hole
scattering the base camp
of the muses, but forlorn
the kept fishes blinked, 
motionless as fat
in the swamp.

It belched.

(boy that felt good - last post almost a year ago so I think I'm safe.:ChainGunSmiley:


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## Pluralized (Jun 19, 2017)

Whelp, trillium grouch through frog bostles, how we changed our welts, apostles. Blink twice, make a mark. Fizz once, out the Blankenship down route pickle horgler. 

It's all about the flander pants, daddy-o.


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## midnightpoet (Jun 19, 2017)

Indddedo, the pak wormbles  dun haekerware, fizzles-gork by the hajnffeble. Gork, beau purple, shelp-panned durn the jullbleen.  Burk, jammopled soon abelled the janker ans jabbered down the parkllrplace.


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## Pluralized (Jun 20, 2017)

midnightpoet said:


> Indddedo, the pak wormbles  dun haekerware, fizzles-gork by the hajnffeble. Gork, beau purple, shelp-panned durn the jullbleen.  Burk, jammopled soon abelled the janker ans jabbered down the parkllrplace.


I can tell, you've been here before. Gibberish game stronk! 

Durn the jullbleen indeed!


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## midnightpoet (Jun 20, 2017)

Actually, this thread makes more sense than the evening news.:icon_joker:


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## Pluralized (Sep 2, 2017)

With revolting black sacrament, plants grafted and daft lads transferred, the wrist-fist-pissed old bat couldn't even half rattletrap. Finding these planks floating, forbidden petrified algorithms that they are, nothing can release you quite like a packet of suspect fritter-tits. 

Marketplace waste, cheddar half-moon downtown paste, it's seasoned quite remarkably to taste. Bogus lift with toga-gift, or perhaps a slapped back in a black rack's snackpack.


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## Kevin (Sep 2, 2017)

Is this a children's book? Will it be illustrated?


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## Winston (Sep 3, 2017)

Kevin said:


> Is this a children's book? Will it be illustrated?



I am about right fixin that near Dingos scaterregoricallogical exodus!  Movement of the Canines! Juvenile, of course.  Lest dog-face impostors of elder years infiltrate our great synergy. 
 That would suck.


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## SilverMoon (Sep 3, 2017)

Snook up round square root da weedles and O letum sea screams here O damnbamb! Her’d mean hearandsee so have sum a-z soup slurp burb furthat! Everydaisy google tele. perdy anachronistic square box redundantcle. O lleh  where a fumble for a hat instead of Magritte applesauce. Dis two normalical fume me.  Lost a n in da soup – Silvermoo’s - a cow? Move’s a cow? Needles some weedles to smoke to right butter noncents. Shell bee kcab wards to moreoh! And very hi.


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## Articulate Lady (Sep 13, 2017)

I think we need some crayons in here. To color. But no! It's black and white, really it's green. But it needs some yellow. To make red. Then you're dead. But Ho! You have been resurrected. Now you're a zombie. Now you eat brains. Heads to the White House. Oops no brains there!

My political rant for the afternoon.

Thank you ladies and gentlemen.


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## Winston (Sep 16, 2017)

Genuflect con queso!  Is it better to pontificate the minty freshness than observe the silence of the Unicorn?  Daresay no!  Rage!  Rage against the fullness of life!  
Be not complacent in your raucous solitude.  Fulfill that debt that you owe to no one.  
Be unique just like everyone else!  

_(Sent on my iPhone 15 using Esperanto Talk, Copyright 2027, SteveJobsCo_)


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## bazz cargo (Sep 20, 2017)

Okay, who has been using my cocoa mug to store their naval fluff collection?


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## midnightpoet (Sep 21, 2017)

Wake up and smell the racket tunblers chilling in the breach
what sly ginglers can the barbed seekers reach
for all bibblers dare to toe the knell
and seek not moronies like the ok folks tell
and now with my lintel I scratch my prison walls
to hear the fratherd ringlertets on the sea-coast call.


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## Avid Daydreamer (Sep 21, 2017)

Flaffelbins! Henrietta's just turned the lights up after we told him to take that picture on the wall. Plug that out, NOW! Honestly, how many flubel buffins does it takes to screw in a buffin flubel? Nineteen, I bet. But you wouldn't baffle, would you? Just soak out the blood and shit. A pure snookle, that's what we are. I mean you. Us? What isn't happening? Is. Flaffelbins!

I feel like a poet.


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## Winston (Sep 23, 2017)

When in and about, I prefer the disconcerting calm of clam whistles over the deafening deer flatulence that is normally not present early Fall.  
Purely adulterated and refined flotsam.


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## midnightpoet (Sep 23, 2017)

Wjile leaking the forrest bloleakly
my self is constantly tweakey
but barrels of fluff
make quite enough
to fool the politic bleakley


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## Winston (Oct 23, 2017)

End around not fully realized, this spontaneous illiterate ejaculation hath ceased it's worth of depleted uranium.  Gloweth not for an etertenty.  Dense, and heavy.  Dig.  
Forthright, I say that no Monte Crisco, sans ham, will ever edify my orifice!  Club?  Perhaps...  mayhaps no.  Grey Poupon?  Or grape jelly...


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## Pluralized (Dec 25, 2017)

Yow! Bloody hag-bags blew out the battle-tags. Didn’t they? Whiffle pouch with a double house bounce festival pooch knocker, thirty leagues astride master goldblatt’s pile-slide. 

Deep-seated glistening asunder, yaw meant less than three bent crests. Filch, flagellate, and flock-ambulate without regard for the baker’s state. But make sure you’re filching, not squelching, half-belching or, Zeus forbid, hamster-felching.


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## midnightpoet (Dec 26, 2017)

The welcome wagon has brought a shaft of tujrkeys  this year, and they all got restrictyed
to baleful bins broadened blissfully by bitten bakers which is why all the soot-palms resomated with blyth pumpernickles pardoned by pickle pappers.


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## Pluralized (Dec 4, 2021)

Nearly forty donglers got flattened as a result of all that yodeling, Chartrice. You should've known that. 

An old pilch-baggins took thunder-lad for a shloopstick journey to the center of the schooner. 

Glandular.


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## midnightpoet (Dec 4, 2021)

Glossie Fink-mottle, the famous fililougist, was the first to identify the new species of turtle-fowl while wandering the vacant steppes of north dendoveria.   Unfornutately, the beast ate her but later died from weed fever.


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## Pluralized (Dec 5, 2021)

'twere pilch-bagglers and blongle-honkers around them parts for yonks. Wasn't much of a gobbler-festival once Tuna-Bags MacGillicuddy took part in whatever tantalizin' biggle-bogglers you wanna call it. 

Forty winks, that's what I say. Fifty, even. Get the winks, put 'em in the stinks, and don't dongle 'em. Or do, and that's just the way the old honkler has to squirt. Part-timer, don't let the squirts be first, see.

Hard to believe the beaver's weave is still under the leaves. Get 'em going, Master Boeing. Fongle-honk 'em, even. 

Ahem, aherg, plerg, and phleggle-plonks. 

*I just read this entire thread from start to finish, and now I feel like my comprehension is far-sighted. Let's just see about 'er. Whew.


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## midnightpoet (Dec 5, 2021)

Skunks lit the night sky and beavers and razerbacks fall from the thunderstorms bliky blinky and good knight miz Calabash, whenever you are.

and I thought this crazy thread was finished (I have to go back to my padded cell now)


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## Sinister (Dec 7, 2021)

I can talk type head word, edward, too.  Sometimes it sounds like I was one of the one of the thirteen.  It's pretty natural, isn't it?  Thank you.  I was here before I started.  Not much.  Ever since I was everteen.

Then eYeless birds.  Sans opt tans mit tori gourd.  Hits not liver fish, wind you know better.
Anxiety worries me with the heart-heavy, watery deveined seven men in a spotlight.  It won't stop breathing in the walls.  Not in the walls, just scratching, itching drywall scalps.
Let's say interesting, instead.  I think it should be highlighted, really crazy, gladstoned even gormless.

Help tell me about I.  Wouldn't need more to do.  Escape.

My _Job _isn't in this phylactery.  No one should be stuck in a dybbuk box.  Writing in the smoke on our roof, covered in red wax.

Today will be no different.  In the smoke...  On the wax.

I amok.  Red feathers.  Salt shakers and tail feathers.  Red feathers.
How are you!  Biting pink fizzing teeth chomping, but with white tickle foam.

I'll bet you didn't know that, did you?  Don't worry, they did it with mirrors; it's a house of wax.  Jenkem.

-Sin


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