After we arrived at our ambition to abduct the aardvark, Allen became abstruse and abusive, arguing that it would be absurd for him not to abscond with it alone because he had accoutered it with achromatic acorns, each of which he claimed to be acquainted with, adding that acorns can be annoying, but these were quite amiable, and calling the aardvark Achilles. He acclaimed himself the only aspirant to activation of the aardvark's art, which was artwork of an astronomical and apocalyptic appeal, adducing that he alone could augment the artist by applying acute acupuncture accompanied by adamant abracadabras. Abuzz and all akimbo like an angry albino with Alzheimer's, it was hard to argue with Allen's alternating arms, which were allied with excessive ambulation and arrogance, but according to Amanda, our Aphrodite of algebra and antispasmodics, if we could just auspiciously ambush Allen's allergies with an amalgamation of alliteration and alienated animals, most aptly antigravitational anteaters awakened in his ass, we might alleviate his astupid assault, and possibly asphyxiate him, allowing abstention from his affrightful arrogation and advancement of our own abduction. So this was our aim, and because Amanda's admirable afflatus is almost an affliction it is always so accurate, making us always ache with addictive approval, we adhered to her advice abruptly. Accordingly, with assistance from Alex who awedged the antigravitational anteater up Allen's ass (not Achilles, but another aardvark), we applied a plethora of allusive allergens in the form of alliterative announcements and assertions that helped induce Allen to ascend into the atmosphere like an aloof albatross or anchorless antichrist aswoon with astronautic apprehension. And thus were we at last allowed to ambage ambidextrously athwart attainment of our ambiguous achievements.

Basically if I believe in what is best for this beloved bark beetle bouncing around in my beard, I better not banish it to the bucket of batter between my boots, but instead, bestow the bitsy bloke with bitesize bifocals and a bovine behavior bonnet. By bequeathing such booty on the beckoning bug, I might browbeat the beastie into barging into battle in Botswana. That is to say, I might bestir the bantam barbarian into bumrushing Bigfoot Bobby, that brazen bewhiskered bison that has been balefully belittling blameless bordellos with brutal bravado and bountiful balderdash, breeding a burgeoning boycott among the bandwagons of bleary broncobusters now blithely broadcasting a bumptious brainstorm to bamboozle those abodes bestride bumper-to-bumper bulldozers, thereby bashing all the buxom blonde bimbos barbequing biscuits inside. I figure that by bivouacking close to the bungling behemoth and brandishing a bonsai boomerang or baby bazooka, this badass bark beetle can buffet the brash bison into balking at this business of a bloodbath, barring, that is, a backfire in which the bug blacks out. If he brings it off, though, a balmy brigade of bombshells on barbiturates, including Bulbous Brenda and Bipolar Betty, will surely be beholden to the brave bespectacled beetle for saving their bogus boobs and butts, and they might take him bowling as a bonus, or bake him a bunchberry brioche on a Bunsen burner, or perhaps they will all go bobsledding on the bluff in a blizzard of bananas. I'm sure you can think of other things, but as far as I'm concerned, these alone would bespeak pure bliss. Okay you bastards?

In my concession case, I must confess to keeping a confederacy of cones, or conenoses, that I convey to and fro their conclave via a cone pulley in accordance with conception of providing an easy condiment for my condors. Those contented companions find nothing to condemn in this behavior, as they covet the crispy critters, contrary to the concertina player that I keep confined in a cage, who commands that I cease conferring the conenoses as comestibles because consumption of the creatures causes him to convulse like a crestfallen cricket crying in a crocodile's crevice. He clings to his commode like a cocklebur, and yet I cannot critique his clownish confession, which I comprehend to be colonic, because that would be discourteous, and I consider the coward to be something of a colleague, along with the chubby condors clamoring on my collarbones, those corpulent chowhounds. I see him as a compatriot in collusion with the colossal collie that continually collides with the corner. This canine is clad in a camouflage costume and his cognomen is Colonel Clyde, short for collide. He collides with the corner to commemorate his own concussion. From my club chair I commiserate with him. Like my own choking convalescence from cannoli-charged Caesarism, Clyde suffers from combat fatigue, a contrite condition that causes him to ceaselessly charge a chimerical come-hither in the coquettish commensuration of the corner. He seems to crave cracking his skull. Consequently, he needs a new cause, something with more cohesion. I envision a conspiracy in which the whole company of us cavorts in cahoots in cordovan capes, chaperoning children in a cognizant chariot. I see us in cherubic consensus, smiling like Cheshire cats, having connived contraction of conjunctivitis. We have become cheersome conquistadors of comfort stations awaiting Christmas to compete at hot cockles. But I can only conclude that the concertina chap does not cherish my scheme. For he is too conservative or circumspect to be compliant in terms of chomping the cleaving conenoses that I have coached to crawl into cups for the coast-to-coast from their case to his cage. He will not craunch them, thereby becoming a commando. And I cannot find this commendable.