I was disgruntled about this grunt which was more of a toad than of a dog. Nad, as a teddy bear would have craved for honey moons on a chocolate gondola, but here as a grunting toad, he was peacing me off: nervosity stroke my head away in a yawn of disgust while I took a pitiful pity on him. Was it the Nad I knew? Certainly not, but a new Nad, annoying as a gnat. So look: I won't tag him a devil anymore. This fallen god made dog after the crusty crater he was moulded from grins at a broken picture, through his earthly insanity, and the thousand pieces of his twisted ego are not hurting my hunting hand anymore (at least when I chase). I can't see any horror now gazing at the gaunt mirror. I pacified my ghosts and I'm genuinely confident in the fact that Narcissus looks more like me than the green stupid face Nad shows to entertain the masses of shifting personalities. The bufo marinus is amphibian, that's known, and the reflecting shade of Dan in me is enjoining him to play the game in a fair way: leave the abyss and act as a pet please, if you want us to fix the bone!
Toads are toads; snakes are snakes; frogs croak and never cawed once in a lifetime. It's an edict of Nature. So shut up the cheater, the shifter misusing the rules (that's you!) and stand firm within the nasty guardian's great role you should only feed your mouth with. Ritualize the threat if you want, keep the feat of being yourself in the line of sight: a twit, a clot, that's enough for you; but leave me the wit, a lot more useful to my challenge: beaming up the words to another die-mansion.
Led to grunt in the most distinctive way once again, Nad got Dan on the vessels of his nerves, bowling from the bottom of his blood, fulminating against the fulsome manner the ominous beast continuously set in his speech, waging rage in the most infamous and pompous fashion. Our dictator rulled over countless ponds, or worlds if we mind, cloaked with mystery at night, especially when this mid-wolf, this old flesh eater (be it a grand mother or a grand father whom he scared with the scarceness of his weird appetite by never tearing more than a arm off) warned the goatee bearded batrachians pealing their extra-genes not to become too dogged in removing their itching varicose skin, that a harmless process was on, during which each bird would swim and each fish would finally fly.
The self-complacency he put into his prophecies were by far so weird and ignominious, that the pond number 2 clogged up, before I turned the sluice gate off, and a gurgling could be heard in the sink. Doing the washing-up is a serious thing, and I don't stand how my neighbour raises the volume of the TV show everytime he watches the Televangelist Channel for Animals. It scorches my hair and it invariably ends up with me diving in the pricking and mouth ulcer of one inner bubbling devoring my white-hot patience.
Then I usually scrap with the walls around, swearing my goodness what a crap he is. His spurious taste for grandiloquence (hotchpotch is pretty gentle to describe the hubbub he makes and the mess of his mass) gets me tug the rug and eat the fleas I'm scratching on my back, out of tempestuous servility to temperance. The pruritus in my fleecy hair shakes the flock of my close enemies and it's less than a mile in mind till I bite the first dove I sniff at, unleashed in the park. It's said boiled toads taste like chicken but I'm very dubious about it. I'd better pee on my neighbour's door and rejoice in the solace of a soothing revenge...