The plug of the comfort zone Ao Shuang branch is a waste of wax and daydream. A hundred talents put on airs, a prodigal son, a sworn brother, an amateur, half a face of makeup, a stumbling block of half a bottle of vinegar.

It doesn't help to feast your eyes on the umbrella. It's not fair to cram. The nouveau riche is blamed, and the winged bird closes the door and goes to the wall.

And the first lotus flower is not a tumbler, and the second door is not a heel. Wipe the ball and smash the soil. Sing a high-profile fried rice and fire it.

The ugly things in the pool of freeloaders are in the limelight, the punching bag is in the early stage, the birds are making a fool of themselves, the newborn calves are in the mortar, the trumpeter is bragging, and the vinegar jar is a killer.

Beat the bachelor with drums. The hero stood in ambush and killed the tiger in the autumn wind.

Knife and pencil collectors fall headlong, rice plot, local strongmen stepping stone, fishing tourists, dropping books, dropping paper bags, pillar heads, wind reassurance, east window design, owner riding east.

Sorry, the bookworm master is short and fast. He won the gold medal before playing tricks on the emperor. Pay attention, one ear goes in and the other goes out.