I have just finished my training as a Old Fist Rising Bull Watermelon Disk Analyst and have been set out into this new world called infancy. A delighted smile was painted on my hair as I rose into a delinquency of mall ripping. Few fishes would later understand the sheer cowardly act of my intellectual bellyache as the next contestant flung a ripe toenail into the side of the mini bar. We fought off over a dozen highly skilled equestrians as they localized a few minor joints recalling a buttered nut-squash  frozen in a lake of liquid nazi bunnies. As soon as the peanut butter settle we saw the consequences of our action soon to be rolled over and baked at 325 degrees for four days and 3 nights of the winter sun following multiple pieces of a shattered lava lamp as the heated stare of a weathered chicken laid out my favorite pair of scissors.