Here is a grammatically correct sentence: Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo. That is all.
There was an undeniable murkiness in the pond that morning as he begin to wade around searching for a soggy clue to help unfold this mystery. Soon a sinking feeling followed his consciousness as he attempted to de-construct the suffering that had evolved from a languid inkling, to a distinct possibility and finally, a sobering inevitability. A mocked knife with a speckled handle and a cunning serration which would slice through his former notions of "hospitable neighbors". Such was existence for a woodchuck in this part of the world, in this time, an era of unspeakable horror, an era in which woodchucks would be persecuted for their beady, dark eyes and carefully protracted front teeth. Komatsu understood the burden was not his, but that it wouldn't matter. The atrocities of the great Woodchuck Uprising in the latter part of the previous decade had explicated the bickering among the coyotes, who made up for what they lacked in intellect with pure belligerence. Komatsu would never admit his fears of eternal retribution for what he had participated in during those years of free-love, midnight bark and twig binging, and general consorting with unbecoming Hitler-youth woodchucks. The visions of a thousand screaming coyote pups filled his midnight eyes, and erected in front of his house, a terrible monument to those darkened campaigns during the Woodchuck Uprising. It was now a grim portrait that held his soul in grueling captivity; an effigy created out of woodchuck malice and woodchuck greed. A moment frozen in the annals of space and time now stands guardian, making sure to never let those visions escape until they had haunted him until his last breath. The pain and guilt had only grown increasingly harder to bear in his old age. The sins of his sons now were the news fodder of the day, nobody seemed to care anymore... which made it all the more worse for some reason, Komatsu thought internally. Off in the distance he noticed a faint twitching in the tall grass. Perhaps this was what he was waiting for; someone to relieve him of his moral imprisonment. He had a thirst for life that often proved all too unquenchable, but at this moment he felt as if this would bring him an honorable conclusion to his pointless excursion into a decidedly quenchable quixotic quagmire. But the grass soon revealed the character, and it was not a sinister harbinger of justice... only Milka, his beloved wife. How she had aged like fine wine he thought. Her course fur had remained in tact now for many winters. Her eyes were darker than the depths of his science. Her shrewd, woodchuck breasts were still exquisite even as they drug along the ground with the fervor of a narcoleptic sloth. Komatusu knew immediately he must make love to his wife one final time before he succumbed to a punishment he now sorely craved.
