“'Mother PINXIT?' What arrogance.” EE fluffed his mutton chops, leaned against the gallery wall and frowned at me. “The PRACTICE of PAYING YOU for a REENLARGEMENT of what's inside your shrunken, walnut-sized brain is losing its charm.”
He stepped away from the wall and observed my busy canvas. “A TERNERY of skinny blond SOCIALITES steeped in AMBERGRIS OUTRACE their REPLACEABILITY and FORTIFY their STYLE with a FOURTH of a busted quartet? Why MORTISE an INFIDEL GINK with a WICKER?”
“Here, take this, EE.” I handed him a PREDEVISED joint. As the SENS ARTERIALIZED, he reconsidered, and now that he was chemically ADVANTAGED, he said “... Oh, I don't know. THE VISUAL PARAMETER REGAINS THE SMASHED VIOLIN. I still think the guy with the willow switch up his bottom looks too happy, though. And he looks familiar.”
"Hush," I said, and handed him another joint.