You know, that strange feeling you get when the sentence you just read feels all gross and inside-out, like a burst haggis in your underwear.
A pickling, plastic, Icelandic, blue, oblong, fresh, gargantuan, georgeous barrel.
Eww. That doesn’t feel right.
Of course it doesn’t. Sheesh, were you born in a quaint, spacious, antique, square, red, New England, wooden, hay barn? Of course you were.
Who knew? Not me.