Marissa and Malachi Michaels, a marriage of monstrosity, mimicked masterpieces from museums. Marissa memorized Monet’s method, while Malachi molded Michelangelo’s Moses. Marissa and Malachi made masses of money. They maintained a massive mansion in Maine, a Mercedes, and a myriad of maids.
Monday morning, Marissa made marmalade muffins and milk, to munch at mealtime. While Marissa mixed, Malachi maneuvered a marathon. As Malachi meandered to his mansion, Marissa was in manacles, the Mounties then manacled Malachi. Malachi and Marissa miserably mendicated the men to manumit them, as Marissa must not misplace their mansion, Mercedes, and maids. Morosely, minimal mercy was mete.
The mad museums made Marissa and Malachi move to a motel in Missoula, Montana. In Marissa and Malachi’s motel, the maintenance was morose. Millions of mice marched mercilessly on the moldy mats. Malachi and Marissa miserably moaned. Malachi mumbled, “Maybe, we might mend the management, and mop this messy motel!”
“Maybe, I may mandatorily manage the maids, and menial missions will be made merry!” mentioned Marissa.
“Might we meet midday with the manager?” Malachi muttered mirthfully.
“Magnificent!” Marissa murmured meaningfully. In many months more, Malachi and Marissa mopped mats and maimed mold, making a morbid motel a marvelous Marriott. Members of Marriot were mystified at the miraculous metamorphosis.
While Mr. Martin, the messy manager, made millions in a moment, Marissa and Malachi made a miniature measure. Because Marissa would be mothering a minor in May, she and Malachi must multiply their money; since maternity would manipulate much.
At midnight, in the middle of March, Marissa was in malaise, as money was meager, and Marissa had no meals or a motel. Malachi met Marissa at the meadow, and mentioned, “Might you meander Missoula with me?”
They marched by a McDonalds, a market, and a mansion. A mizzle madly misted them, so Malachi motioned Marissa into a mission. They were moistened, and miserable. Moodily, they made out a mild, meaty monk.
“Might I make you minestrone?” The minister mentioned
“That may be mighty marvelous.” Malachi muttered.
The monk made minestrone, measured a monstrous mass, and minded the Michaels. They monumentalized the man in their minds, and made many marvels at the medley. When Marissa and Malachi finished their meal, Mark the monk, mentioned Marissa’s moving moppet, making her melancholy.
“My minor must move into a miniature motel, but money is meager, and our manager is miserly.” Moaned Marissa and Malachi.
“Minimum means is more than mandatory, if you memorialize the Messiah!” manifested the minister.
“How might this Messiah minister this message to me?” Murmured Marissa, mistrusting Mr. Mark.
“The Messiah was murdered as a mediator, massacred so mankind might have manumission. The Messiah mends miserable minds, and mizzles measureless mercy to the macrocosm.”
“Multitudinous mercy?” Malachi mustered, “We must motion this Messiah into our mind.”
The monk mawkishly materialized the monographs of Matthew and Mark, as Malachi and Marissa mewled. In the morning, the Michaels Master was the Messiah.
A month more, and Marissa was massive, and was moonstruck with her mediator. Malachi moiled many minutes at a mammoth Marriot, and was manically ministering the message as a missionary. This once monstrous marriage was now a magnificent match.
On the matinal day of May, Marissa mothered a miniature maiden, she marked the moppet Millie. Marissa, Malachi, and Millie all moved into the mission, and were missionaries to Montana.
The Michaels migrated to Mexico to manufacture a miniature mission. Malachi and Marissa many more minors, the moppets monikers were: Millie, Mercy, Maverick, Monique, and Moses. They magnified their Messiah, and metamorphosed many more Mediator maniacs. They maintained a marvelous ménage, and made their Messiah the maximum.
One day, a proud peacock sat admiring his vibrant feathers; emerald, sapphire, and amber all came together in a striking stalk of fluff. He gazed in his superior, luxurious mirror, gawking at his attractive reflection. All remained well in his superb mansion. Until suddenly, his friends ran to his house, and advised him repetitively to pack up his home and flee from the approaching flood. He continued to untangle his plumage, and retorted,
“You approach me, as mere commoners? My home is made from the finest materials; each sturdy column fashioned from flawless marble, every tile crafted from the purest of gold.”
“We understand this, sir,” they responded timidly, “But the oncoming deluge will sweep all this away, leaving nothing but dust in its place.”
The peacock screeched, “Depart from me! You have no place here!”
They went to their homes, to collect their items rapidly, before the looming disaster.
The peacock, somewhat traumatized, tried to preen himself peacefully, which worked, until he felt water at his feet. He quickly scampered and grabbed as many of his belongings as possible. He quickly jumped the stairs, and scuttled to his roof. However, since it was made from pearls, he easily slipped off.
“Help!” he shouted, “Someone please help!” When he finally swam to a nearby boat, all of his feathers had been ripped off by the current. “No!” he howled with dismay, “This can’t be! My perfectly preened plumage ruined by these harsh rapids!” From that day to this, a peacock loses its feathers once a year.
Seize the day; don’t waste time on things that don’t matter.
