Oooh you're a naughty mess

sored bhitless/ woman un-in shopping with associates so i in alone, b-treble-O-r'd, popping spicules and listening to the smiths, the world won't listen, a most excellent complication, though i seriously contest the omission of rusholme ruffians/ writing of which, a friend still has my cd copy of meat is murder/ it can be argued quite reasonably that the smiths are one of the finest bands of all time/ i'm sometimes accused of having a bias towards manc bands but the mondays were phenomenal, more so parce que shaun sensibly destroyed factory before the mondays could be forced to put out any tepid diarrhea/ and what better way than with pounds 250, 000 of w. indian crack cocaine/ fookin nice one ryder/ moreover bummed is one of the finest 'inde.' albums like, ever?/ indeed it is/ also chq. out the re-issue which includes l.d.'s stunning remix of wrote for luck (superior though, to the novice, not clearly distinguishable from vince clarke's remix)/ the boy with the thorn in his side, seen as a departure from the smiths' usual high quality output (a twatting view of the new musical express) is winding gently throughout the flat, morrissey's uniquely gay lilt effortlessly bought out by my new silver-wire interconnects/ if anyone is reading this (ha...ha...ha) doubts the man's flagrantly homosexual (or at very least, 'camp') posturing checkout the studio version of rusholme ruffians set to random images on youtube/ 'tis rather amusing/ or indeed, the cover of their very first single, hand in glove/