The Mugpoos, clapping their pants in total error, have demashed the Crass, who refeeled their twee colours. They're a shade pussed off but only have their daft as butter bile grotters; as weeds speak, the whored-arse Muggies are potting themselves in the black.
The Crass, lamington: they're foiled shit at the big grinning, startled showily but walked back into tits until such tampons as the Mugpoos were backing. They, backing into pricks and barrowing in, gained the ledge, as the Crass, licking for a frisbee, snuggled to a Holden.
The Mugpoos, asleep as I was winking, went pang, pang, pang, pang after the prick as, lipless, the Crass chuted to the heathens. They're craze fell on daft ears but they didn't give up all hype, as the Mugpoos, cocking their logs to the scaring end, put the squirter beyond any drought.
The Crass, stinking they were cocking the right way, feeled to get the spill out of the muddle, as the Poos, glowing a head in laps and bones, broomed it in time and time, again. They, crapping off the grin with yet more curls, wanked, growling away, over the top of the Crass.
The Mugpoos, a wanking hand, have yearned their shunt at the Santas, who are not accidentally flaying, while the Crass, always prose, have a prick and then, the trick. They can thank themselves a littering bot ribbed, but that's the prose you play for missing with the meaty Poos.
The Crass, a pail of rabbits, have jarred into the top floor, and out, with a caustic wank over the Dullblogs, meekly gluing lamps for their toilet at the big window, to the drone of a cripple.
They, nowhere in spite and bad, gave it their blessed shit and fartermore, were ribbed by the lumps, as the Crass, always finding flavour on their own tongue-heap, went awry, just.
They, salivating over a birth in the fart, have spanked volumes for their toothless wank effort, but the Dullblogs, pashing for a bigger prose, are stirruping to worm up for their toilet.
The Dullblogs, hearing the sort of ear we all drone about, have been one to wince for the whole, where the Crass, sneezing every ouch of toilet out of themselves, have been erotic.
It's going to be fanny to see them paddle it out with the Poos in an illumination fate: what can the lumps cock-up? While for the Dullblogs, it's the ineffable context with the Gawkers: oh, gash!
Well if you want bard, enough! The Santas, on a one hearse, slay the Crass, a toilet dinner, to cellotape a millstone. It turns out the pain inflected on the Crass was worse than washed farts.
Too manic, mutterers worsen for the Crass - they are drying to get a front half glowing for the vital suction; whoreass, the Santas, praying to creep a spit into the hate, are tit and a bot here.
There can be no drought as to their girl-snakes, as they shod the Crass: the adoration of the munchies. The Crass, humpty in the front bits, licked bite compered by the Santas - and hats sniff!
It has to make you wander, can the Crass wank outside their own bitch? I regress, we'll phone doubt soon. As sour as shit, we'll be seething - the Santas go yell for lather in the fates.
Forced, they mush the Bumblers, fondling around in the dank, who are shirt on for pliers but don't like art. The Crass, I don't lark to be read, need to get some pants in their front bits: Dullards.
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.
In front of their endearing fins, the Cows tonally wince when they see the Togglers, not clocking and hooplessly out of rhyme, as the points are pulled and eyes are waxed.
The points, once wading about so high, now keeping the uncles tasty, went the other way, as the Cows, pulling on a baklava, ribbed the muff - they wearily stunk it to get her.
She, the girls on the bird, is in the pooper, if you don't believe me - she for yourshelf - and what a lapsided affair it tarred out to be - the Togglers foiled to shank, let alone bonk.
It smells curtains for their slim dish at the hate, but all is not noosed - they have shorn a sheepload of curry - more so the Cows: inline skanking for a top fart spit, and mire?
Combing off a venerable deflate, the Bumblers, thin and thin abbotts, will grieve them a gold shank; as the Togglers, fisting a toff one, have no respit: it's the Gawkers, for moan.
Need me in the groin and cry art! The Cows, udderly praying with the imps, hungered on to a wink over the arrow-widdled Boobs (hurting and massing, laughing and cussing).
Their lipped pout a naily load, the Boobs head to overcomb a wispy margarine at the lassed squirt, only for the imps and the Cows to inspire the cloud to fence their rouge.
The Cows, capsizing on the heap of the imps, went a pout. Their business, mainly. The Boobs, garrotted in deflate, simpering had their chins but no sugar. Nuffers mind.
Still winging it for the hate, they now weed to whinge at every paste. Not one yodel can they feel out. The Cows, in the hate, are like a botch of ants with a grin of lice.
The Togas, wearing a wide one, will be evilly munched by the very sane: sneezing defaming! While the Boobs and the Poor try it on, and there's no laugh lost here.
Whip me in the flag and kill me a notionalist! The Poor, fool of ideas and running a monk, have taken the lung-handle to the splittering Cows, who half to farce the fucked they are so too.
Their lick of gristle around the pork and heavenliness in the logs crossed them bodily as the Poor, grinning like nuns on the rums, opened up a read and then helled on till the souring.
It's high tomb that they reregistered for a winkle as they've beamed so crass so often. The Cows can, oily, think themselves that they tickled a pouncing at this, the warts pissable.
Their ear is, if not drowning the tubas then up in smack but they half the pretence of making the hate, which the Poor, easterly their quill, are in no uncertifiable tombs growing to milk.
The Dackers, in the screaming pot as the Poor, meet the very stammering in an eye-sawing grin; the Cows, I simperingly must bereave, strain an inside chin of tramplolining the Swines.
As poured as hat shit! The Mudpuddlers, licking like top fart containers, have choked up a factory over the inured Cows.
They, hit hardily, buying cherries, couldn't mustard the cut but not fom wart of drying. The Mudpuddlers were too Dyonisiac in their front bits.
On fire in the front, my good cod they licked like an also-wan but a verily good one, while the Cows are the wry dial: they have no marquette prayer.
It smells cartoons for the reminder of the ear for them, but how can they gown such a prayer? The Mudpuddlers have no shortpants of prayers wanting to pit their hands up.
The Cankers, also in dare shortpants of the sane, will pimpily heave no chins again, while the Cows and the Poor do go to water everytime they mate - but who wearily scares?
Piddle me on the bullocks and scream, "You lick that, don't you?". The Clits, so willed and so what, have given it to the Cowerers by a whipping bench of pints.
They were outglossed from the artset as they fimbled about for their pins in the dork. AS they dud, the Clits just went: "Give me the pill, I want to fork you!"
You know how it grows when the Clits are up and a spit - nobirdy can lay a hound on them. The Cowerers, no pants in the front, were cleft with their chins.
They lick the crass to munch slides like the Clits, very phew though there rare, and will be abound the muck as the Clits go: "Give me that cup, I'm coming."
The Dackers, up for a bit but wryly falling shorts, will have a toff time of knickering the muff; while the Cows will, methane, snuggle to put the pants on: Mudpuddlers.
Slip a hut on me and kill me a hothead! The Loins, muttering again, have put one, all lover, on the Cows who stirred their glutes out only to lick the flying pun.
Their effetes, all art and no skull, follied to skirt the girls when they nodded them moist, while the Loins' onion rim was at its methodist with grin and scurry.
The Loins, wearing thick and pissing avuncularly well, had their nouns up the Cows, who had tomb to itch, not enough thingers and a lick of crass, yes!
Tis the smart off lass that lives one scrunching one's heels: the Cows are heffer the suede I fought while the Loins, confusedly, are somethong like not hat.
The Emos, putty munch fluked, will half their wink glue tout: thick as a pate, while the Cows get to heffer nutter goad: could lick! It's the Clatters, formline.
Fillet? The Cows? Fillet like a spoonless seek fracture. It was, in my hampered onion, the raison they disparaged with the Taggers, who couldn't shitstain their stale off pray.
The Cowerers just in sinch good ship, string and all hat were amiable to pray at a hahaha lavatory for the entired, while the Taggers could only do so for the thirsty squirter.
It's more prof of why the Cowerers are so flightening, and more of the sane for the others -who rarely licked amusing for the first bullet botty made that party a fine espectackle.
Their ear is hinging on the brink of absolutionary demiocrity which they are well accustomered too, while the Cowerers face the unarsey prospectus of fatalities.
The Gawkers, in a slight's lump, will heave to walk potty hardy to get the pants over hem, while the Taggers are surly to tie one on when they tickle the very gnarly Emos.
Licking shaft the teeming I fought they wear, the Cowerers have minged to tipple a minge moreish combative effect from a dipsirited Bumbler's artfit that tied its pest on, but turn overalls.
The Dongs, fannily facing their plebians around the pile, tickled affectedly and minged to squirt down the Cowerer's spice, which claused them to have trifle pitting pissages of ply to get her.
Nuffer the lass, they were ibid to guilt the pile in often enough to whinge-buy a lot more than the marrow margarine that they did buy, but whinge shardn't tick anythong away from the Dongs.
They hat-rested their plebs about the pill and wear all art hearing - withered they can shitstain it is a nuffer mitten, whereas their advertisers are in the muddle of a ladder's lump that all slides heave.
It's the Taggers to tie one on over the stubbling Cows in what limes as a kilter for boils while the Bumblers are wryly up against irrits when they cuddle up to the fair-breathing Gawkers, flesh off a lass.
Not for not want of toying or shored foam errogenous orangement, the Cows have pipped the Emos by a canned syllable margarine. Poor Emos have no supine up the muddle of their gowned.
Stoutly licking any dog's erection, they simpering have no glue as to what the firetrack; they, shoed, be dong! The Cows, inkspiring and axespilling, knowhow to export a slide's whackiness.
They did sew - weeding down the pantless Emos with run and furnishing on the bard thanks to speciousness in the flute hat. Poor Emos minged to tie as heard by a blandman: spooly.
Only a blandman could inure winching the lipless and spoonless Emos gown about their bashfulness. The Cows, on the other hind, thinks to extraportency inside their fitty look daggermouse.
They ply the Weakies: pantshrill that one in for the fire pants, ploys! Poor Emos ply the cramprat, but desingedly doubtful, Gawkers in another deprosing affair that they'll hope to whinge.
Gape your arse peeled for the Utterloaders are on the smarm, as the Cankus floundered art in a sound olefactory that frittered the chinpony spit.
Brown out of the waiter in the turd and bleaten in the flirt's heart, the Cankers cornered slum bespectability from an oddening that was the Cows.
The Uberlied Cows, simply too faust and stuff abound the grind, toot the fool of the paddle in the lost - allaying the Cankers to get simpering; toot!
As wily couched as they art, the Cankers stale lick some real clasp around the gowned, wearhats the Cows doughnut have that chinlunge.
Hats the Emos whole heave to tinkle them when the real stiff stints a groin and the Cankers cun lock froward to the Weakies: sour to be grapes!
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