Dammit-Dave Doesn’t Dare Part #3

Dear Dave,

That dare-dame-devilish decade is done, dude! I divine you diurnally, damefoundedly driven to distraction. Don’t deny it.

 I dare say I dwell deceptively, dexterously, daily disengaged, dozen-doughnutted, discreet – devoutly decondamenated – indamenified. Dubidameous doughnuts deliver my dispassion dependably despite the drudgery of disentangling my deviant downward dogmatic drift into dedamefinite diffidamenation. Discovering damefoundedness my desideratum dogs me dishearteningly.

Dave, don’t deduce me doughnut delinquent. Devour dozens, I do, despite declining delectability, despite my domicile’s deepening damefoliation. Day-dreaming, I depict a deliquesced dame daintily, delightfully delaying departure then doing doughnut dough.

D. David I. de Facto