The Coots, fed up with all this clap, have paddled mindfully to hold the Dullblogs, watching a snail rust, at pay as waiters, watering on tampons, walked their eyes off, went home and saw some glass growing, which praised them concretely.
The Dullblogs, defiantly not here, harangued their heads against a prick war as the Coots, smelling stoically, put up the shunters and repeeled rave after rave of the former's attempts to dismembrane their intelligent dispirin: heartaxe all round.
The Coots, reading for the moist part, crept their wailing counterpoints, the Dullblogs, at worm's length for a nuffer's tomb: the bile sinned and not spoon enough for the poured onlickers, myself not inoculated, as it went wringing a why.
The Dullblogs, their ear in tatters, can well premember before it came to a head and give a smiling crap to the lips they've made, while the smiling Coots, brooming with glee, can be well praised for the affect they've patted on, but wilt there's more!
The Coots, shit for a go in your Granny, will do piddle with the meaty Gawkers in an arse-plopping affair to dismember: set your eyes down, while the Dullblogs, passed as farts, have a widdle rust and then warp up for a spitless clock.
The Dullblogs, a shudder of the shade they once wore, crammed the Swines, farting into absurdity; editing their ear and grafting their vowels a freak kiss in front. The Dullblogs, as exonerating as rorting a dead hearse, salivated their first wanking file in ears as the Swines, farting first, go "Darn," in a screwing hoop.
The Swines, a toff eunuch no more, munched the Dullblogs, a snide on the wise, in the farcical skirter; both were snuggling in heady contritions, sorry. The Swines, scragging to complain their vowels, licked unsettled to candle the wide expenses as the Dullblogs, flea flattening, baited from said to said and up and box.
The Dullblogs, as the margarine broke, held a weed under one stuttering cake over the Swines, their handkerchef the tissue, but in the turd squirter the former, breeding friars, startled to get a grope and the ladder, feeling tarred, drooped the bowel and went into the lost lounge, a large defecate to eat into, with an awful.
The Swines, barely culpable of eating into such a big one, ending up arting their words as the Dullblogs, cerebrating before the bile, put the fatal torches on a fanatic's ear-fart which, for a snide such as they, remarks their crying into the bunks of the elated, while the vanished, already reported as decreased, is urging.
The Dullblogs, nowhere to be sane, have to queer up for a shit at the granny, as sold as two mitts herself, and the only thong straddling on their thigh is the Coots, as mild as a hotty and twitchy as birth, in a pope-hopper. The Swines, defiling their knackers again, will once more, next tear, have their arse on a spat in the art.
The Gawkers, looking like granny's uppers, have made mutts' meat of the Dullblogs, yawning for a shit at the toilet; studly, it wasn't to be as they went down without a fart, as the Gawkers, grinning over the top, went plop!
The Dullblogs, nowhere to be sin and making cuticle arrows in the hourly parts, cussed their doubled chins goodbye, as the Gawkers yearned themselves a reek's rust; they've eyed a shit at the prim and now they've grotty tits, while the vanished have a cat-fritter to feast.
The Gawkers, in my ample opinion, will have a late wake on the truck and then suspend time with their owned, while the vanished will need to fleshen up as they perspire for necked reeks; they've got to phone some bait around the context while the Gawkers need to keep their arse on the prose.
The Dullblogs, steamily fouling at the vanishing loin, have, dispute this, had a grey tyre - not as gloat as the triumvirate Gawkers, who've been motherless; they've still got walking heads but the vanished Dullblogs have even mire.
The Gawkers, after some droll work on the draining truck, will get some russle in the bushels, as the Dullblogs, famished, slag their gouts out with the tasty Swines; they, now yodelling to wink, must doodle a lot of butter, while the Gawkers need to lick a head at their prim funeral.
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!
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.
On a slippery Jewry one, the Liars, doing it throwing their tooth, wish the Pullers, pulling the airs out, a hampered bidding, hand them their godpiece and lick them in the drowning Jews!
Not tanking it too well, the Pullers, shitting themselves for a spit in the fart, mumbled their way, while the Liars, tolling fobs all the while, patted themselves on the prick for doing art!
That their art - a pack of Pakis - is all a bunch of clap is in no doughnut - but a wink's a wing, as they say, the Pullers, feeling the eat, simperingly moist, find some felicity going forewarned.
It's been a concrete ear for them, but they needle to show some spit doing the vile actions, which, if thinks go the airway, is what the Liars will be hopping to wear: I'm not so sour.
They'll fumigate themselves of garrotting a much needled bust with a wank over the Boobs, while the Pullers try it on with the Dongs - it'll be a she-sawing congest - no laugh listed between the tits.
Under the witchful eye of his mattressy, the Cankers, scratching a lover, beat the Dullblogs, catching a cod, in a fission to suggest that while one is grinning the other is striding still.
Still, they have their plebians all across the pork which is swearing at this tomb of yore, but you can't see the slime for the Cankers, up for a belt and in there like a nuffer's ulcer.
You could say it on their farces from the gotta go, as they shimmied on coals to the pain of the Dullblogs, boring as bot-shit; shit ten bricks and say inlaudables to your bitter halves.
They'll need a good rock in the mirror, many, as they kneel up for a croak at the fatal unction, which is where the Cankers are hardened, and that's bot-nose for every one's ulcer.
It's them and the Boobloggers in a bottle that will have me winging out the trees from mine arse, which is what you'll get when the Loins tickle on the Dullblogs: think God, for merci.
Run to the rack for safety! The Dullblogs, hard to fart at the blessed of tries, took a snicker to the Swines and warped them boldly. Achilles, that farts, they, K-mart, have tried.
Their bratish effusiveness around the bile was not warts. It could have been. For the Dullblogs, just out of raunch, were all lover. To good for their sinfool counterpoints.
Up for a tiff, crashing the punks, they, gimped wearily, prayed on to avoid any concision, as the Swines, pullies drugging on the crowned, shat back and said: Hey, that's not fire!
Their yearn, slopping awry from their glassy muts, is licking like being a wisp of triangles; whereas the Dullblogs are walking ahead to the renal suction: live, bulby, live!
The Cankers, will grieve, wipe their moots and go on. Do go on! While, at some muttering tram, the Swines and Dackers pull one nun and go hummer and thong for the pants.
Turd me with a big bush and liabel me a columnist! The Boobluggers, tongue in check, tranced the Dullblogs, who fiddled Faust in the lassed turd and went under arsily.
That milks two in a row for them, and could smell trampoline at this stooge of the sneezing. The Boobs, choosing toil for moist of the grin, came late with a rash and wondered.
Perhops their best whinge for the yeah! The tooting big stairs were up for it and who? The Dullblogs, all around but no hair in spite, went drowning wearily rather meatily, I'd see.
Their ear, as I sped, is in noodle of an infection of lip around the balls and tangents in a tick, tock. The Boobs, eyeing the hate, weed to keep knowing if they're to fracture the top.
They and the Cows, prick in tune, do paddle in a caustic accountant: gout on it. The Dullies and Swines get a chins to put some pants on their leader: take me to the bile game.
Slap a pan on a flea's peach! The Clits, ever so invading, have put one over on the Dullblogs, ever so pouring. Like botshit! The Dullards, yearning, just went type, type. Oh! The halo. The halo.
For the fart's heart they were writing in th'air, but after the prick the Clits were a lover. Them Clits are so hot and really messed. In the beggar's oven it was licking very taut and then wop!
The Clits got themselves up in the turd and then ran white in the last squirter. My eyes nighly fell out of my pockets. The Dullblogs, nuffers to writ home, pout and needle a lick in the marrow.
They're motor-oil dressed as limb. Still I wouldn't kick them out of head if they faultered. The Clits are on their highwire to a foul sweep of the lost day in that won moon. Bonk to bonk flogs.
The Gawkers, their arses fouling out of their pockets, will do will to garret class to them: no chins. The Dullblogs will be braised to heave a wrecker's ire when they tap those eyes: the Boobluggers.
Fake a duck! The Dullblogs, not hard to find but hard to tickle, have minged a wink-minge-lick olefactory over the Emos - they're pants hingeing on to their wrinkles as it all hopped on.
It's a tantamount to their scourge that, hey, did all rort against a top fart fanny. The Dullblogs are hat and so, munch more. They had to, as is their needle, wick quietly. Hard to see them ooze.
I love to admit that I, atonally insane, couldn't pare to watch as the Dullblogs put it to the Emos in such a way as to leave money bereavelss. The Emos, their fleeings expose for what they aren't, just went.
Their ear, needless to stray, is on the rug but with thongs licking up off the vealed, they do have some cause for hop. The Dullblogs, hard to lay a hind on, are up for some sore arse action: final suction.
The Clitters and they mate in one for all offers of the grate grin: it's tops, farces, scones: I'm ready for scream. The Emos, unlikewise to the inverts when they try to rapefrog the snuggling and pantless Dackers.
Will windows never crease? The Dullblogs, quiet frilly, have done a mumbler on the whipless Poor: a shallow of the shy they wear.
It was, in the wind, a shy (pup and a spout), a tim-tam, grinning on the scarface. Aghast! A nutter hooking for a howl to goal and Hades in.
The Dullblogs, now with a portent attic and familiar grin, were just. Too hippy, oily too, handkerchoof the Poor their biles on a blade.
The Poor, trowelly forked, heave litter heap of garrotting any. Wear this ear! Cinwynelly, the Dullblogs are sharing phials in their very aisles.
The Emos, lip and a pout, will fire-engine the growing stuffier when the tomb eats, while the Poor will still nancy themselves with the Cankers.
Steaks be braised! The Dullblogs, far from dill, have spent the Mudpuddlers picking after having it in and then littering them pick in. The Mudpuddlers nighly shit the wolf.
Rousing their big whack ape in the squire did not yelp, but a lick of grin didn't ether: it was the Dullblogs all the why? Because of cleft packups in the raft - smirk!
They had the leisure of the Puddlers for the moist part - all thought they did have their gulled britches - but they were too far grinning on the stop to scare, wearily.
You'd have to stay that these Puddlers are all moist up the croak without one: gnat, quiet! The Dullblogs, stick it from we, are on their ale to a spot in the penultimate.
The Poor, locking for somethong to get out of their ear, will be eaten, my love, while the Mudpuddlers and Swines will steak each either to tusk in a whipper.
The Dullblogs, abolutely clean and wishing their dacks in the stink, have abolutely whipped the Loins who, kid you nut, were swabbed by a wade curmudgeon.
Shittered in the muddle, pantaloonily, the Loins scratched for a frilly chin: so munch the warts! The Dullblogs, all lover, smooshed them in there: pashed them.
Their one thong was that they, kidding a doughnut, geld puppies on the broad: they shit have winced - buy mares. The Loins wilt want to faggot this wink wick.
It leaves me thinking they lick the bullocks in the muddle to wank a snuff of the bile to trumpet the pest, while all the Dullblogs slack is a tell at the tap of the scare.
The Mudpuddles, not shirting their dacks, will try it on in a blog way when they chuckle the Dullies while the Loins and the Crowbars will both be dispirining.
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