#dalliances

You should seen how staunch-ass hooker advertisement this photo coulda been, almost happened, then the program crashed. Next time... or even now... you could just pick a real one, reasonably DTLA orchard-pride vintage, right now, after a full moon's jaunt about the local alleys, see how trite he might, that's the slogan. Baby dance-ass shit du luxe, du jour, Dubai? Don't matter how valid fresh you are, out the desert, the fuckboyardee substantiates a draught of holy water, that's how du jour the played-out hand-eye coordination is, validly still Sunday AF today, just waiting for a Tuesday Monday actually Monday do over, ... kinda contentious, but kinda validly "dunno what day it's been, 3rd-one straight, off-hand, kinda treasured lady meat, usually fuck my uncle so OK, this one's valid..." ... kinda delicate, when need be, ...

That's how staunch some people contend a dude like me is, substantially, a social work jaunt, about alleys, about town, just do gay, even if you're not, that's how vintage, that's how staunch one dude was that I'm gay like that, and done with the alley dumpster shit by the time he shows up, ... jaunt-movement-vetted, this one got me, as the best-of, of all the alleys about town, conceivably, by that time of morning.

So, I took some liberties, obscene, while jaunted AF, admittedly, with some pretty contentious aspects of middle English grammatical usage in the context of 11th century stylistic conventions, considering the impact of the Norman invasion of England and the wrath it bore on the aesthetics and acceptable boundaries of franco-linguistic implications of superiority over a tidy neat etymology, heretofore, (it had been supposed…) of a standard-bearer Middle English, or “Old E,” like the malt liquor, as it might commonly be dranken by a corner-ass bum, or perhaps a proud El Salvadorean, even to this very day. Linguistics heritage stylistic considerations hearkening back to the deep-seated French and Latin roots of grammatical repertoire become du jour, way stauncher, in the greater picture of the developing language environment of Europe, wielding magical sprinkles AF, unbeknownst, to the Old-E linguistics-torch-bearers of post-10 66 a.d. Norman conquest English-speaking usage; proper, du jour, until the post-late-Renaissance, clearly; as a topic of staunch contention among scholars and old dirty bastards who drank malt liquor, du jour, for shizzle.

...

Quote:

During the late Renaissance and early modern periods the vernacular languages of Western Europe gradually replaced Latin as a literary language in many contexts. As part of this process scholars in Europe borrowed a great deal of Latin vocabulary into their languages. England’s history was even more complex in that, because of the Norman conquest, English borrowed heavily from both Norman French and Latin. The tendency among language scholars in England was to use Latin and French concepts of grammar and language as the basis for defining and prescribing English. Because French had for so long been seen as the language of the nobility, there was a tendency to 👀 cases where English-language usage differed from French (and/or Latin) as ignorance on the part of English speakers. For example, in Germanic languages, such as English…


(From Wikipedia, https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_English_usage_misconceptions#Grammar)


Perhaps I was a bit jaunted, unappreciably much, admittedly for the stark Old English 800 style of the standard usage likings of the day, and I let some depravities of intelligence piss-drip on to my daily garb, as it were. But, too jaunted AF to be fuckable, for a man who shoulders a manbag messenger venture capitalist ranting persona, round the downtown Los Angeles backroads of non-hipster demographic “outlying fringes” of where it goes down, as far as “guys for skid row fare,” as I was, most commonly, (as I would, weeks later, have come to discover). But what about other people? In an early a.m. alley, at the hew of Olive at 9th: a veritable luxuriant mobile-“as bums go” lifestyle accompaniment to the “shit goes down” sorta standard bearer recyclables jaunt, turned down: “a dark alley,” quote unquote; some say, an episodic, perhaps, local broadcast “awaken!” scandal of the lower-dwelling life forms closer to ground, to defy the fashion maker’s typical drama of “whatever;” quote: “new girl!” - stuff “about offices” in short-scale high rise lofts of a livv-(sic)-work district bordering South Park, so it’s totally like Brentwood to Santa Monica, eastside, for locals, yet so much more walkable, for bums who do cans-and-bottles-recycling-while “Fashionably bum athleisure technical institute” jaunt that likely be “fare on the backhoes” of the ostensible mind about me (or someone like me); come to find that it’s a daytime by light destination, by homeless of all sorts, (or several at least). Ostensibly posh. It’s definitely not the standard bum’s way-back side alley iconic quotable “landmark,” (yet maybe, for some)...

...

But for a certain type of bum, this circa summer 2017 recyclables jaunt,

“It was pretty vintage,” they say (the contenders). “Pretty cave-aged gruyere.” A fabric dumpster side alley late morning (if it was night, which it was (it had been), for me). Was I giving off signals of a trite early a.m. bum, in the alley, scuffling around with a stick in the trash? For fabrics, of all things. The scraps of the big fish.


Apparently.


But was I flagrant? On broadcast? Flirting with showing off, ostensible Catholic jaunt physicalities, like “I’m so du jour, so narcissistic, so trite al dente tagliatelle petit mignon fuckboy-al-flambé?” Quoted? Spotted, so histrionic, like a madman, on an imperial jaunt, about town…? Now, quotably “jaunting on trash dumpsters, post-jaunt-trifles curiousity piqued. So they contend. So they dramatic at “how does it happen to me, yet it always, and why? - about how “must be” I had was (“is, as it were,” from a different perspective. Fonda cock asstitution competitive jaunts about “he does that, so always,” like “I see it, so commonly” contentious standards depravity deprecations, fallen from “whatever they do;” I do me, “alley fabric trash dumpster dive “this one,” young maverick.” All quoted as such.

...

Perhaps.

...


Perhaps, when I got a bit 🙌, I let some foul off-handedness kitsch-ass 💩 slip, in my technique. “What a trite row about morning,” “it must be,” so I thought. Yet I didn’t believe it. Staunch, to contend. The sleepers are sleeping, the other ones understand how fabric jaunts go for a “jaunt-trifles, recyclables also,” (included) trite curiosity of fables’ lore: established, du jour, like “he does package deal” for ladies who go “beyond scandal” to get to a quote “real one.” They understand. A bum.

Loll.olololololololol


But, still fuckable, in a skid row housing trust kinda jaunt, with a dumpster search and rescue dive, just to be a fitting ending. It was a pretty bold row of split-infinitive egotistical assertions of Francophile superlative-nature-isms of off-handedness purported usage, at my leisure, like I pwned it, so jaunt. I did pwn it pretty staunch, like a 🦄, at the time, I have to admit. It could have been offensive to people around me, and to those who observed it.


But, at the risk of appearing “not validly” jaunted-AF, yet fed well this year, of all years (on garbage, that’s how I take care of myself). I made sure it was a blogable-bodied jaunt, of a staunch European flavor, just to do Italy and France… about town, a dump, “over London” and 💩. Peasants cook small game to that 💩, about how jaunted that 💩 was, that “when he showed up: episodic:” the dalliant du jour boy. Bum enough to fight off contentions he was decadent, and self-indulgent… nah… “he was staunch on fabric-trifles jaunt, in a post a.m. beyond-tabloids move on my life!” - some said; “they do civil rights stuff, whatever.”

“Staunch so much, I didn’t need him here any more” they act “like they live there,” they obviously don’t sleep. That’s how jaunted the comrades were when they showed up, after that jaunt. Was it unhygenic? So jaunted AF split infinitives, so many? The North-men were staunch, I can tell you. Staunch to that effect. They put the truffles on that boar, when they roast it. Louis. Ex. Veeee, insignia: wigged-ass 🏇-riding trompe l’œil visually narrative biopic, no less, that’s how contentious some Englishmen stated that “Norman invasion,” “grammar;” “du jour” was, circa 10 66. That’s how “came-at-me staunch” they contended they needed to do about a trash dumpster jig, and a dig, with a stick (in my head), in the trash, if I had to recount it. I don’t actually “see them.” Some ivy-league asspad contentious 💩, gym-League sauna, effleurage de leur, shitsicles of Normandie, post-jaunt, without 🛀. They come at me, contending that “this be on broadcast:” real bums of Los Angeles. The sleeping ones missed it. This is the breakdown.


Some might find it reckless, call it deprecations, 🌈 sprinkles and frosting, but “recyclables bum” just wasn’t cutting it. Standard white guys from Eastern lands had to show off their cuisine, and how finery was it? To an Englishman? Pretty jaunted, pretty artisanal, seasonal, and craftsman, the Norman French style, so fancy, the Latin etymological roots. That’s how decadent the Ass-shit-kitsch faring “jaunt, you?” contenders that I do “so fabrics, everything - picked through the trash dumpster, without being harassed” were about it. My autonomy. My right fare of passage, throughout.


But to an east-coast southerner? Neo-nazi ass news feed du jour content protestors? Pretty contentious, I guess. The west coast continental du jour of a people raised on Germanicism, unacceptable, some people tear down monuments for 💩 like that. That’s how jaunted we GAF about the news, by the time it reaches us, over here. Standard white guys… contending.


We piss that jaunted, on a Monday late-morning / afternoon, after a trite fuckboylific tabloid-b-roll weekend, every other weekend, though. This week, I rested. But the gay dudes… don’t stop coming at me. Like they heard about me, or something. Like they practice, then they show up, stauncher than before, stauncher than contended. Staunch gay, from out of town… sour doh boy. Pretty contentious, around here. Around here, guys like me jaunt. AF. That’s about it. Sweat it out, in the heat. Al fresco? So fresh-though, so jaunted, so 🌈 AF 🦄 💩, in the alleys.


But nuclear war, meanwhile? That’s pretty contentious, that Old-E Norman invasion 1066 💩, so du jour, so bold, so provencial European, maybe inconsiderate… to a Korean translator, off-✋.


Don’t blame the messenger, they say, “I was jaunted, AF, about town. Unappreciably so. Unbathed, in the summer, but to miss out on athleisure status would be unacceptable, for the average bum, around Los Angeles. They even stole my shoes. Stole all my 💩, that’s how 🦄 it got, 🌈 sprinkles, when they hunted down a real one. A wild boar. Animalistic. Fuckboytastic, for the ages.


But contentious? Nah… not to an island nation, hopefully, I do young Maverick, you do you. No contentions with how jaunt you roll that bowl, over there, I don’t smoke that 💩, though. I snort it, eat it, strictly. But knocking back a bottle of piss? That’s not beyond me. So du jour, sometimes, after I jaunt, I thought.


Then I sobered up, once I did that. They validly got me drinking piss, like I’m an old one, like that malt liquor du jour, for a real bum of Los Angeles, Olde English 800. You do you, I’ll do my thing, I’m allergic, sorry.

Decoding Trump’s Daca dalliances – BBC News

[ad_1] Image copyright Getty Images One of the concerns expressed by White House aides, on background and in whispers, is that the president has a tendency to agree with whoever has spoken to him most recently. Democratic congressional leaders Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer had that opportunity on Wednesday night, and now there’s a tentative agreement to give some sort of normalised immigration…

Espagne : Mariano Rajoy en quête d’alliances

La victoire des conservateurs aux législatives ne suffit pas. Même si le Parti populaire de Mariano Rajoy reste la première formation d’Espagne, il perd la majorité absolue en obtenant 123 sièges sur 350. A gauche, le Parti socialiste s’effondre…