That's a whole new level of obscure.
Somewhere, echoing through out all eternity is the one time utterance by Dennis Miller: "What the fuck!? I don't get it. The last time I messed around with "pearls" was a pearl necklace around Jenny Bonarello's left knocker which, by the way hung 1/2" lower on the left breastage while at the same time the corresponding nipple is 1/4" higher than the other one on the right mamtastic mammalagio, like it's some kind of game of mammary gland -one-ups-manship, or some scene ripped out of & twisted about from Chekov's "Three Sisters" where by page three you just KNEW some one was taking one for the team. But I digest, Chachi, much like a majestic stud bull, alone for the moment as dusk settles, his strong jaws chewing the last tasty morsels of lush grass after a late evening rain, it was just a matter of WHOM that particular spooge monkey was going to be, so such thoughts tarry not the swallowing of the masterfully masticated green mush to add it to the multitudes of stomachs all chugging along in relative, gassy harmony as the day's final meal is added to the mix, while thoughts of the long day's memories are brought back up like good, grade-A cud so it can be thought through again a few more times to relish every split second until sleep over comes you to bring about dreams of yesterday you thought up tomorrow to relive today."