Google: “JMRQ Heavy Industries”

Too Treat who but You, the reader of me, yours truly, when Summer Sung and Summer Stung by a bumble-bee, merely, or albeit a never bee-ing so nicely—a White Faced Wasp—with its nest hurdled above in the little crevice by the roof—ain’t that the truth—and to my Trust Fund—I just don’t want to get Stung in my bodacious body, heh, my BOOTY so friendly relaxing on the couch (with my Macintosh), this when the slip to the sloshes of Hush Pup’s touch-up’s of shampoo and sudsy, paws freshly clean and not at all muddy, the mutt goes shampoo something something a dog’s poo, like Phew it’s Pooh Bear with honey—that attracts the stinging swindling self-defensive and duddly yellow-jacket insect, that they all inseminate The Queen, hoping Justine hasn’t had anymore semens in Depends or able to put fruit in the overdone oven—all the songs were sung—and Sponge Bob viewed with her favorites’ the cartoons, eating ice cream shared between us two—with spoons—and then spooning in bed after I always enjoyed seeing me at the Altar—but not with her… I wanted to be, I wanted to be, I wanted to be, so joyously, with…