Fur flicks as it is pelted, a fleeting bleat suddenly secretes from lung and throat into the air-scape laced with pain and confusion, bruising mind and body, so twisted as the horns wrapped around heads, this goat has just been punched in the belly. That's what you get for betting on the Patriots.  

Swirling tufts of fluff floats defiantly in the whirlpool caffeine drool, vomiting a caramel sugar decadence onto the circular porcelain fence of it's playpen. I asked for a mocha, you asshole.

How many flowers can one man ingest before his investigations finally arrive at the rather expected digress of "wow, these things taste awful." How contrived an experiment to perform as he's torn all sorts of contorted arboreal anomalies only to crease them in his teeth to breathe pistils and petals. They won't taste better, bring the tulips away from your two lips and drink this coffee you noodle-headed nitwit.

The quarterback makes haste and wastes his chance at connected the pass to his intended destination, that quarter-back catches like some foul farm animal. He even yells like a monstrosity as he's tackled to the ground so ominously, promise me you won't buy him coffee in the morning.

.....happy friday night!