stag FISH plankton sticky glue-covered albatross, velcro-covered aardvarks for whole-room application - couch made of live mongooses, lovingly hand-weaved and asked to hold position long enough for you to sit down - if those shades dn't work for your interior decorating motif, why not just cover your windowpanes with live ants? -
must take umbrage with your house report of 16 November, where you refer to Disney On Ice with the phrase "the magical goodness of Disney magic". I shall pass over the redundant nature of this phrasing in silence, but must point out that Disney On Ice is hardly the "magical goodness" you speak of. It is a stinging horror. It is but one arm, one appendage, one fear-inducing tentacle of a multinational corporate Cthulhu plying upon the dreams and fears of innocent young minds for its own dark-green slimy profit. It is a terror incarnate, its "leader" a six-foot-tall grinning rat, its Cyclopean works luring thousands of innocent children to its cultlike "amusements" and its workers upon this Earth wearing oversized false heads - daunting animal-like masks! - to shield the eyes of the unsuspecting from the soulless horrors doubtless beneath. Even their nefarious founder - Walt, the true "Disney On Ice" - by his own hideous will has been encased in freezing, unending cold in hopes that future generations of his minions may someday reanimate him. There is no "magical goodness" here, Mr. ---. There is only a terror and a madness beyond human comprehension, reaching, reaching toward the living world, devouring reason, leaving only darkness and savage creeping terror in its wake
He grabbed Steinfrau's nose. There was nothing for it now; he had to hang on, hang on for dear life, or else the mad German would be gone and there would be no way to prove his innocence. Steinfrau tried to roll up the window of the moving cab, but with a massive lunge he managed to jam his free hand in and around the crank; the pressure on his arm was terrible, but the window stopped in mid-rise, and the extra handgrip helped him hang on as the cab increased its speed. They were heading toward Midtown. There was a chance, a bare chance; if he could hook his ankle around the fence at the 59th Street sidewalk café he might be able to slow them down. But would he be able to? People were screaming, throwing things; there were angry shouts from theatregoers and commuters, traffic cops pointed at him and swore. Steinfrau seemed to be egging them on, damn him.
"Accio Jensen index!" Harry cried, pointing his wand at the maintenance margin requirement. If he could just prevent Voldemort from off-balance-sheeting a little longer, he knew Hermione would come through with the EAMS differential disclosure. But Voldemort's equity was powerful, even with Dumbledore's setting value date on the Eurodollar; his random-walk didn't seem so random, and Harry was sure that even with translation exposure he could paper over his losses. "Autoregressive kedavra!" Voldemort snarled with a sudden fiduciary. Harry leaped aside, nearly forced to sell at a dirty price. If he hadn't set his global bonds to Market-if-touched he would have been forced into liquidity