Not my…

Not my waffle iron, not my garlic butter.

 

Not my missing link, not my chain of fools.

 

Not my archduke, not my ham sandwich.

 

Not my combat boots, not my sponge cake.

 

Not my border collie, not my neatly herded living-room furniture.

 

Not my astonishing soprano, not my shattered window of opportunity.

 

Not my hell’s bells, not my tintinnabulation.

Not my stash, not my angry stoner koala.

 

Not my morning after recriminations, not my night before criminations.

 

Not my dumpster fire, not my seltzer cannon.

 

Not my misplaced optimism, not my box from Pandora’s closet.

 

Not my baby goat gruff, not my tiny troll.

 

Not my aerial animal farm, not my rain of porkchops.

 

Not my walrus, not my orthodontist.

 

Not my angry sea bass, not my surprisingly frisky loincloth.

 

Not my unicorn, not my pogo stick.

 

Not my catcalling jerk, not my humorously cartoonish piano dropped from a great height.

 

Not my snake oil slick, not my traveling salesman joke.

 

Not my police box, not my grandfather paradox.

 

Not my otters, not my jello shots.

 

Not my werepenguin, not my tragically interrupted black tie reception.

 

Not my android, not my electric sheep.

 

Not my sewer snake, not my surprisingly refreshing palette cleanser.

 

Not my chimera, not my piles of mismatched body parts.

 

Not my chaotic neutral halfling rogue with too many quarters and time on their hands, not my industrial dryer full of bags of holding stuffed with random monsters.

 

Not my herring, not my candelabra.

 

Not my supercalifragilistic, not my expialidocious.

 

Not my pack of hungry foxes, not my easily digestible oligarchs.

 

Not my undershorts, not my llama.

 

Not my corset, not my camel. 🐫->🐪

 

Not my oatmeal, not my lemures.

 

Not my yaks, not my hair gel.

 

Not my raccoons, not my frosting guns.

 

Not my cantankerous archaeologist, not my precariously suspended boulder.

 

Not my chewing tobacco, not my angry camel.

 

Not my albatross, not my penitent mariner.

 

Not my bottle nose, not my church key.

 

Not my pants press, not my pocketful of candy corn.

 

Not my alpacas, not my hairstylist.

 

Not my constipated snapping turtle, not my razor thin majority.

 

Not my foot, not my dumdum rounds.

 

Not my flagon of embalming fluid, not my mannerless shitgibbon.

 

Not my pajama pants, not my bushel of live eels.

 

Not my chocolate frogs, not my peanutbutter swamp.

 

Not my honey jar, not my giant death hummingbirds.

 

Not my sea lion, not my octopus.

 

Not my horde of rampaging otters, not my sea food buffet.

 

Not my walrus, not my convertible.

 

Not my barrel of monkeys, not my china shop.

 

Not my flock of sparrows, not my bucket of spilled barn paint.

 

Not my herd of giraffes, not my four score of rollerblades.

 

Not my ACME parachute dealership, not my horde of angry lemmings.

 

Not my swarm of hyperkinetic mice, not my bucket of Crisco.

 

Not my flock of lactose intolerant ducks, not my gigantic ice cream spill.

 

Not my camel lube, not my sandstorm.

 

Not my pandas, not my waffle iron.

 

Not my fox terrier, not my barrel of crisco.

 

Not my cave bear, not my unreasonably large squeaky toy.

 

Not my rat’s nest, not my hairdresser.

 

Not my bathtub, not my cattle prod.

 

Not my shallow observation, not my sweeping generalization.

 

Not my dog door, not my very confused badger.

 

Not my angry racoon, not my bucket of spackle.

 

Not my cattle prod, not my ice dancing finals.

 

Not my Quasimodo, not my tintinnabulation.

 

Not my Wimshurst machine, not my ill-timed glitter bomb.

 

Not my toilet seat, not my epoxy resin.

 

Not my misplaced kidney, not my lost weekend.

 

Not my barrel, not my 60s television driven boy band.

 

Not my metric wrenches, not my English neck bolts. #ShellyShocked

 

Not my Thundarrsnow, not my Mokluks

 

Not my snowplow, not my overturned tanker of buttercream frosting.

 

Not my cattle prod, not my angry chihuahuas.

 

Not my lawn darts, not my herd of drunken goats.

 

Not my garbage disposal, not my dwindling supply of spoons.

 

Not my camel, not my chewing tobacco.

 

Not my religion, not my overstuffed cultural baggage.

 

Not my naval mines, not my hot tub.

 

Not my Snuffleupagus, not my lint roller.

 

Not my bundt pan, not my bag of rats.

 

Not my unfortunate joke, not my ball gag.

 

Not my peck of pangolins, not my vat of vegetable oil.

 

Not my dead 9-volt, not my sad cattle prod.

 

Not my yak, not my bongos.

 

Not my eels, not my waterbed.

 

Not my shade, not my octopus’s garden.

 

Not my noodles, not my gerbils.

 

Not my lobbyists, not my nose calluses.

 

Not my pickpockets, not my wallabies.

 

Not my plaid skirt, not my caber.

 

Not my beat box, not my packing tape.

 

Not my overpriced nervous breakdown, not my fussbudget.

 

Not my magic mushrooms, not my whirlwind tour of the 8th dimension.

 

Not my road tripping rodents, not my palatial motorhome.

 

Not my greyhounds, not my giant hamster wheel.

 

Not my cannibals, not my casserole.

 

Not my subtweet, not my strained metaphor.

 

Not my shovel, not my soon to be bottomless pit.

 

Not my gremlins, not my military industrial complex.

 

Not my exploding can of rancid pineapple, not my conference room.

 

Not my seriously overburdened litter box, not my human/cat hybrid.

 

Not my unsightly rash, not my giant intelligent cactus.

 

Not my fire ants, not my boxer shorts.

 

Not my kindergarten, not my giant magical badgers.

 

Not my ping pong table, not my cuttlefish.

 

Not my weevils, not my muskets.

 

Not my yarn basket, not my Gordian knot.

 

Not my lawn gnome, not my garden barnacles.

 

Not my woodchucks, not my wood chipper.

 

Not my irascible archaeologist, not my snake pit.

 

Not my script, not my giant carnivorous plot bunnies.

 

Not my caribou, not my Morris dancers.

 

Not my not gross overstatement, not my basket of elephant ears.

 

Not my target shaped hat, not my phalanx of incontinent Canada geese.

 

Not my disco, not my dancing fool.

 

Not my cute emergency, not my thundering herd of wallabies.

 

Not my poodle, not my bucket of detangler.

 

Not my eels, not my onion dip.

 

Not my pharaoh, not my blue suede shoes.

 

Not my wolverine/honey bee hybrids, not my pocketful of flower scented sugar cubes.

 

Not my bouillabaisse, not my lung guppies.

 

Not my giant flock of turkeys, not my unmoderated listserv.

 

Not my walrus, not my glass bottomed boat.

 

Not my balloon animal menagerie, not my cactus garden.

 

Not my cream cheese Elvis sculpture, not my tactical spork.

 

Not my sea lions, not my bath salts.

 

Not my balloon animal menagerie, not my cactus garden.

 

Not my fish tank, not my spider monkeys.

 

Not my pipeline, not my electric eels.

 

Not my martini, not my sea monkeys.

 

Not my punch bowl, not my piranhas.

 

Not my brewery, not my rampaging hippos.

 

Not my pandas, not my enormous diapers.

 

Not my wallabies, not my family sized bucket of butter cream frosting.

 

Not my cattle prod, not my waffles.

 

Not my chainsaws, not my octopus.

 

Not my hamsters, not my wallpaper paste.

 

Not my single malt, not my panda suit.

 

Not my wapiti, not my window washers.

 

Not my Lhasa Apsos, not my asparagus farm.

 

Not my greasy French fries, not my trapeze.

 

Not my aardvark, not my onion dip.

 

Not my Atlantean phasmagoria, not my sea monkeys.

 

Not my tea biscuits, not my whipped cream cannon.

 

Not my saber-toothed tiger, not my orthodontist.

 

Not my coffee cake, not my warthog stampede.

 

Not my greater North American shitgibbon, not my oncoming bucket of indictments.

 

Not my giant hotdog buns, not my angry chihuahuas.

 

Not my haystack, not my stylist.

 

Not my finger trap, not my shitgibbon.

 

Not my howler monkey, not my wind chimes.

 

Not my wallaby, not my hot pockets.

 

Not my cocktail olives, not my porcupine.

 

Not my flock of seagulls, not my scatter plot.

 

Not my velociraptors, not my ice skates.

 

Not my chinchillas, not my flowbee.

 

Not my yak, not my cuticle scissors.

 

Not my deep-fried Snickers bar, not my hollandaise sauce.

.

…………That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.