A Were-Wheaten Christmas (7)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (7)"
   
   Maybe to wrap things up--never neat and tidy, yet what you might call:  sloppy magic.  What a name for a band.  Sloppy Magic.
   Freddy Hart didn't hate her stalker Sister, Lady Shaqdiesel; moreover, was not upset at Hulking out of her clothes, or hilariously so as she morphed Were-Wheatenways.  Comedy, yup.  Tragedy, sometimes; however, ALWAYS comedy.  Life is a SEINFELD episode, it got Aceline through the cuckoo's nest, though Chief wasn't there and fleeing to Canada--they have nuclear power plants up there.  Canada is especially "Cowboy Way" in the West, yet not the far West.  I like to spell WEST.
   GMAN was way more downtown cool than the ravenous Red Tornado, thirsty for programmed justice, and your conscious phone is smarter than you, unless you carry a piece of copper in your pocket to calmly conduct the orchestra of going to a grocery market and spying the sway and strut of so many making you noxiously nervous, so much monstrously so that golden, cream-filled Twinkies magically appear from your pretentious pouch, like busy bunnies hopping, and the savvy Peter Cottontail gets liquid-papered by freaking Father Christmas, until he lives to lay eclectic eggs again.
   It all worked out, as this is not working for mundane me.  Gonna study Euclidean Geometry and see if that makes a damn difference--let the water flow, you damn beavers . . .  
   Freddy Hart got:  CASUAL.  Wore the Reebok brand, for an instant.