The Santas, a nude awful wink, have latched themselves into the fart with a nounless word over the Bumblers - unreliable to pelt a plopper chide on the blur, for the spate of anchovies.
The Bumblers, feeling a side short of its breast, fretted at the speight of their lunch going, why? the Santas, fat-end firing, spied on the girls, as they swept, and sat their, thinking.
Their thoughts clausing their arse to tar up, the Santas walked up to the scarred bard and licked it in the arse; as they did, the Bumblers, blurbed up, because of the Cassius cuts.
The Bumblers, for all the thrushings they've clopped, have had, warily, a motherless saying; justice, the Santas, baited from pillow to paste by the prissy, have equalled a doubled chins!
The Santas, thinks to munch, get, now, to shave their top lap to cuss the Coots in a dripper! The Bumblers, on the and of their drips, will spend the simmer on the trick, to poke up a little.
Despair at the late lips of consternation, the Dullblogs, weaving their vowels in their whack, make wince-meat of the Bumblers, whimpered by the spite of ineffabilities, for fork's ache.
Hope sprints internal, but you'd need a fair dice to bereave that they stood a chin's gasp; and so it worries, as the Dullblogs, yawning for a flog, piled on girl after girl in the second squirter.
The late consternation lips, affording their weavles the last four gulls, praised the couch no end; the Bumbler's art, berating as big as them, thumped away despite being so undermined.
It's yet more arson to thank that they are heralding in the right direction - although a choir of welders still holds them up; the Dullblogs, get shat for a goat: the funerals are in their arse.
Nuffer's fear! the Crass, so very munch so, are in a very smelly pout: this could down to the underwear; the Bumblers will drool the gallons on their ear with a boost to the Santas: tata.
A little less conservation, a little more unction, the Crass, I peg your burden, make mitt's meat of the Bumblers, hurdling hard by a spite of inches, hence, folding a wanking bride.
The moneyhoon is over, as these inches have laughed them with nuffers to chisel form; it's not a pleb the Crass farce: accept a few, they're grinning on top of the pork - and hue!
Their grinning pugs, grinning like piggery, founded hoping spaces and rims to grin in, as the Bumblers, praying ketchup, went to the will and founded no waiter: they died for it.
This lass, so so sweet, so so sower, spills the end of their dip at the renal suction: liver and let; the Crass, earing up for pissable dabbling auntie, need to keep their arse on the prose.
The hottest trinket in tune will be on them and the Santas: they've been good: who dials winks; the Bumblers, on their wrist-legs, are down on all fires but the Pullers aren't so fresh.
As if tapping these mumbled worlds isn't a snuff, I had to waitress the Costers, my moist laughter, smooch the Bumblers, my other hourly fanny, to the tone of a gristly ten pants.
The praying, notched on the farces of the Bumblers, was effluent from the very thirst - the Costers, ogling the pints and thinking up, went hail for lather, and drew a way wearily.
To their internal credit, the Costers have put a prose on their pants an it was too lunch for the Bumblers, needling a wing, hurting bricks late but laughing their grin too loiter, Atlas!
The upshit of it all is that their yearn is a lover, but under a new couch they've shorn slap, lewds - the sign can't be shed for the Costers: not money prayers pit their hinds up.
They can put more arsenic on their cack: they get foul squirters on the Emos - but thinks don't get much bladder for the Bumblers: it's the Cows keeling up for their dolt at a flog.
Feel in and out of laugh at the drip of a hottie! The Bumblers, cuddling themselves, frighten out a taut arsehole with the Emos, who's points are drowning around their uncles.
It's more cunny-fodder for their pilates towards a rotten spanner, but they fright like bloggery. The Bumblers, too many prose, always screamed to heave it in hind.
Their scooper in the scare, black and techy, bragged a lousy blog as the slide went: "Weeeeeee!" The Emos, shitting pricks, had no anchor for the stinking slip.
Noodleless to steam, they're groaning for the ewe, and innocently, there's not a literature of hype. The Bumblers, still loaning on their moldier prose, are waiting on fool's goad.
The Ogles they'll be objected to will be a salad taste of wearing their hat, while the Emos and Chats crash in a top farces button grin: penis the Clits in for the fools' points.
Message my primate parts and call me! The Bumblers, ambling thereon, pelted the Mugpoos with a deflate that ticks the wink from their sighs. It hurts like a cock in the face.
The Mugpoos can, nil afeared too, lose grins like this one 
Crossed, they licked afflatus in the nigh and went, no tanks! The Bumblers, that on pong, spelled to high heathen.
My codpiece, they run and lingered up like a fanning time. On friar! The Mudpoos, snuck in the mad, lingered on, grubbied their ear-holes and fought to themselves: "Oh, no."
It doesn't smell cartons for their oar, but they, butter, start piddling. The Bumblers, grieving plenty of hype, still relay heavenly on their senor prayers. They're all white, foe.
The Emos, a whittled spanner, will get warts cumming to them: a suite of lasses. The Mudpoos, conversant in lasses, need to get prick on trick even if it's a lass, Gawkers.
Sense this: my constitution has deigned to protect the ratchet and poorful. Indecent! The Togglers, no saliva tiles, have, wanks to the unctions (not words) of their prayers, pashed one lover. The Bummers.
The Bumblers. Atlas, hording up the word as we knew it, couldn't have got them, lover. The line, just out of felch was just, out of felch. The Togglers, a slimy chin softly making the hate, are a glib to belch out . Fart. Fart.
Sentencing their chins, the Togglers, tickling their winces, scalped over the whine by a belliest minge-grin. The Bumblers, laughed, holding their hearses between their teets, were, as they spray, grunt in defect.
The chins they'll mock the hate is very off-wait, but they have shorn a rotten mule that I extrapolated. The Togglers, white in the hind for the hate, need to get their blessed prayer on the pork and then we'll sin.
Surlily I'll see them tinkle the Loins who are one of these dooms the Togglers have snuggled with in decent tombs. The Bumblers will have to overcomb their tarred arses when they paddle the angry Madpiddlers.
As if thongs couldn't geld any wars! The Bumblers, grinning on top, have knitted up a wink over the forking Loins who relay too munch onto. Phew!
They concorded a massive choir while chanting up a big win of their own: not a snuff, sudly. The Bumblers, doing their grinning thong, grinned away.
Shot, that's a pig wind for the smiley gays from Bumblerland - the Loins, so used to groining at them, had, I fought, the word on them. Nought to beetle.
It leaves me finking. They might slap out of the hate, and if they donkey they'll slip out earthily; the Bumblers, prolly won't, but have renowned hop, now.
They click the Togglers in a buttress that pips two foals, aghast one, a nutter the ether; the Loins need a wink and heave the good lick of mating the Oglers.
Take my clothes and kill me a nudist! The Bumblers, ever the bombers, have dropped the Dackers by an ever so slimey margarine. Class but no sugar.
It's yet an other marrow loss for the lackless Dackers, who tied their cunts out only to see it all account for knot. The Bumblers will tickle it on the gin.
They, still hungering in here, prayed like maniacs on a missile as they justly knew the Dackers, imminently laudable, would fold under pleasure.
You can wipe their muff this ear; they've done their dish but, there's always necks. The Bumblers are a vained hop for the top hate - just bully.
The Loins, hanging for it, will be up and a spout for the Bummers, as airways; while the Dackers are all for lawn because they tickle the Clits.
Well, try me up and call me hearse! The Bumblers, abolute clap, have creamed up the Boobs, on their mirey why, quite crumpetly. It hearts the Booblickers really bodily.
From warts I can gutter, they did not goat in and get their yawning bile which let the Dongs, up for tit in a blog way, in their like swarmwire. They rumped away in the wend.
It was a meretricious wink for the Dongs - they were hanging to hinge one on the Boobs, and what a why toad it for the Boobs, fraught, they were milking the hate.
This till, mate! Do that, but nut whiteout a ladder pace of lack, while the Dongs - all their cleft paters on the pork - are striding to get themslaves into Greer: woohoo!
The Dackers will be disparate to rib them off a slim chump of marking the hate while, the Boobs and Togglers do bottle in a squash of mouldy waffles: witch out.
The Dongers and the Ogles have seen off this whittled brick dick after putting on a tellable dispirin that the farmer waddled and the ladder swatted.
The Ogles, lacking the cods but licking like spit, never licked lick throttling the Dongers who had that lidded bit of butteriness all around the pork.
Their mangey monacles, endearing the spice, and their tosser tights, not panached for their grimes, did a snuff to berate their lipless and hipless ruffles.
They've gowned from chimps to no-hoppers in the spice of a blank of the I, while the Dongers still relay on the firm of their simian's kipper.
The Boobs, up in the hair, will be disparate to greet the Dongers with some pleasure around the pile, while the Ogles have a tiff wink: the Scatters.
These lumps that the Gawkers are hearing has been blistered over by a big hill from their spirehead which enampled them too. It left the Bumblers scratching their sheds, again.
In no smell: a mint o'form, the Bumbler's cord got their grin going and had a hind in the thong, while the Gawkers, relaying on their mate in the squire, snuggled - as they are. Now!
The halo perfumance from their savaloy in these choirs was one for all sages - as he pooped a lousy noon, while the Dongs were pooless to slop his hate, spade and skull: ow!
In the sear they are licking down the sparrow of absolut fermentation. No need to defenestrate - there is no widow. While the Gawks have to rid out this white lump - plain.
They and he will next mate with the Cowerers who won't be squared, not one little spittle, while the Bumblers tickle the Ogles in one to be swabbed. For sourness, peas switch.
In a fleafloating afflair the Flighting Bombers have dropped a big one on the heads of the Poobuggers as they prefailed in a bottle of the ceiling dwellers. It was a wrecked ankling deflate for the Poos.
The hay scarring munch was a sin for sore bums as at nefarious times either slide looked like completely slapping. In the wishup it was the pants and flairs of Bumblers that pulled their opponents off.
The Plumpicker's starry plyers on snog couldn't stomp a more evil Bumbler's eunuch from tanking the cank in what moist sourly rankle with their soupeaters. The Bumblers canthink their lanky ones for the wink.
Nuffer slide is gong to summon too much this ear but both will be opting to tighten up their tickling if they're to get munch joy out of the so soon. The tampon slides are adapt at constricting their opponents.
They Bumblers may get another could flea running match when they furnished with their ghosts: the Dillbogs, while the Plumboggers meet arch gnomesis, the Pipers in a match that could link up.
An errant Knight in shinning armour has rescued the Bumblers from obscurantism with a stinging thirst-up whinge against a hopless Kangaroo outfit in the last game of the first round of 2008. It was the chasing and harnessing of the Bumblers that handed the Roos their hat with their scalpel in it.
The Woos looked to have the cane in hand ably for match of the first half but a surge close to the oranges being broken out left them holding their balls between their teets. The Dungs smelt like rowers from then on in, handing out a lesson in running with moist players getting in on the hacked.
The Kangas pimply went to faeces when they looked like getting a motion in the ocean going. Unable and unwilling to give them a rake, the Bombres tomb and tomb again swept up their droopings and scattered them up their nostrils. The Bumblers had winkers all over the park looking to pick up anything loose.
When they face the C**ts next wink the Bumbles will have to show the same amount of leg and wear the same amount of udder-garmentry because the perverts will be waiting in the bushes with a porno and a pile of oily rags. If they can hanky on to their possessions they stand a chance.
The Roos will be hoping to quickly erase their sticky vids with something more wholesome but will have to do sewing on the back of a rug with a needle and a bit more rum in their legs, use the brawl a bit better and polish up on their silks. On this effect they will have to raise their canes considerably.
Add Comments
Comments (2)