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.
Veal in love but be soaped by many smiles! The Cankers, openly a wound, did just a snuff to bleat the Emos, climbing in spite and crotching their mules out. Pantless Emos have a pelt but their issues are hungering.
Out of the mush climbed the revolves of an Emo outflirt with a commentable lick of parity. Show out of the box, they never rarely coughed up. The Cankers, witching for a sweep, supped a snuffed girls too.
Getting the jab done, but know more, they wink be overtly appeased that they laughed the Emos, rotten spinners for Sara, back into the contest, not for betting, lately. At last they geld the balls through the girls.
The Emos, lick, I said, written spanners, for sour, need to tank their mutton for the rabbis. Their yeah, so lewd and blase, could go either awry or not. It's just that crass from fists to noon. Lick out for the nude.
The Loins, drowninng the cunt, noodle to needle the camel's thong through the ear of a noodle or they'll get forked, Cankers; while the Bumblers, prick in tune, will, witlessly dupe, punch the pants, Emos.
Rip me, inner frog and, liable, I'm a notionalist! The Dackers, their shits on a friar, deferreted the Poor, who, no croaks in the bonk, went udder. It was, yet wince now, a lass they had to heave.
Their fantastics, funereal as a dud biddy in the grind, were laughed to rule a nutter. The Dackers, dangermouse, crumbed all tit sway for a shank at the fiery pants. They laughed to appease.
With girls spelled around amongst money prayers, they were liable to go wiff. They, a crime: doubt, spelling like wowsers. The Poor, never spilling that, went to bottle with a wart pooper blog.
Their ear, shit from muddy air, is down the gargler but their lisp is brisketally stringent, so there's necks. The Dackers, in the steamboat, can and will. Will is a weird made by many: no thong.
The Ogles, the eyes having a but, will, in a weird, go crass to tapping that arears. Go Dackers, they're wilting. The Poor, shit of kosher, will heave to be frightening to berate the Santas.
Fantastical as an ex-seamstress! The Togglers, lock the taggers on fold, punched the pants from a said and told Loins artfart. Why, oh why, did the Loins fake this one cap!
It all tinkled pates in the blank of a nay. The last wrestle went and they licked up to the scared bard and snored the Taggers chimping for chair after varnishing fausts.
The Taggers, you have to stray, are in the muddle of a burping pouch. They, simperingly moist, cope gowning, as the Loins cope shirking into blue-tent indivisibilty, ay?
Their ear is hanging by a throat but still have a muff to snicker into the fatal hate, where the Togglers, clocking over the pike, mush make it. It's new or nuffer, I'd say sow.
The Clits, hard to fan at the beast, will have to cope a noir art if they're to tamper them, as the Loins, itching with the Cankers, know that a wink is a mush for their hype.
Just one smiling thong! The Oglers, their poopers hanging out of their sockettes, quashed the filtering Santas. It was a less that hits mire then a snuff. You could seat coming.
Up for wakes, they'll lock bricks at this eon as the uno that garotted awry. As they do, the Oglers will weave bricks and say to them: "Nananana". In this vein they went, ah.
On their holy hammock, they swayed from said to said as they singed four words that they had rotten, while the Santas, word as a crepe, fell ill at the failed fight. All lover, she crowed.
The steamed carrots be still for their ear. The Santas are still coming down the shit, so lick it! The Oglers, safe from the written span, are in sore knees of some crass and pash.
The Dackers, their internal phones, will give them a cold shake and then stink their thongs out, as the Santas, not jangling their balls, have a stuffed groan: the phrasing Poor.
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.
Knacker me up and whip the unborn from my tomb! The Clits, so every tit prose, have tickled the pants from the snuggling Gawkers, who dried their ear-soles out but, nail-biter getting their Narcissus in front, couldn't heed them.
Fart from the whinge that got awry, this was a wink the Gawks had to loosen. And they tit so with a plume. Smack my belch up, the Clits went. So heard, they drugged in there and, never liking pricks, got head and went, ah.
If it wears not the best grin of this ear, I'll be a mannequin's uncle. The Clitters, in trample eerily in the lassed, slummed on girls at coy moiments. The Gawkers, in there like slumwire, coffined up the bile at all the wrung tombs.
Their ear, if not frying high, is still in noodle of a lick up the prickside. They heave to get some coy menfiddlers into some firm, quietly. The Clitters, drowning a few coy prayers of their whine, can really get a butter batter, oily.
The Togglers, now a stuffed slide, will give them one all matey munch in what should be a raper. While the Gawkers farce the Mudpuddlers, who'll be bathing fire to get a wink and get their ear back on trick. Another bloody raper.
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