The Gawkers, their poopers bludging out of their heads, have shown the Santas, fit and jelly, the door and given them, out of look, one all mighty cock up the backside that will, I swear things, still be wringing, even now as wee sprinkles.
The Santas, blowing out of the waiter, never failed to tie like piggery but the Gawkers, arse on fire, saw the pig's ticks and went inane, as their bitter enmity, no spade around the muddle, ran themselves into ever dopier trebles.
The Gawkers, demoisturising why they're burning to grin, showed amusing versatility in their front half, as their pig baddy, cosy in the head, played with the mortar for the fellatio and the Santas, true prose, went down on bounded knee.
The Santas, as a mitten of fact, have stuffed their trident up the soothe-sayers who've been fork-fishing their demise while the Gawkers, sturdily imploding, have taken the necked strumpet and, going like blouses, pimped away.
The Gawkers, thank the lad, will meet the Coots in the big oven, as we all hyped: they're weird. I can hardly walk. The Santas, their snoozing over for now, will look to necks with all arse on the inquisition of a very farced grinner.
The Santas, matinee-idols dressed as lamingtons, have dashed out a plate of shower gropes to the rinsing Mugpoos; the former advise the prim where they'll lick to shave a laugh while the ladder can pit their ear in mouthballs, put their fat up and plopper for the snoozing ahead and crave for the last tear.
The Mugpoos, a sanitary Scatman as their chef, were licked in for a taut tissue in the farcical banana, as their vowels, an ungnome for a cook, and they swamped the weed; they were cooking the goats but had a spiteful plebian in their back half, as the Santas, affected, put the sex-painters on the board.
The Santas, pulling away in the sconed squirter, went to the munching with a heady margarine. The Mugpoos, well behind, couldn't cock their rugs through the lamplights for anything. They, eating orangutans, licked at the bird and fooled that they had the belly-laugh. The Santas, thanking like wankers, had the bun-fights of a pimple grin-plinth.
The Mugpoos, in the lost heart, went to the will but the will was awry as the Santas, fit and jelly, went cocking their logs on every paste. They, so much the more disparate, went in like maniacs dispossesed as the Mugpoos, as loco as a republican, cocked every which way but through the laplights and cussed their ear goodbye.
The Santas, nervous, grow onto farce the Gawkers, fat and defiling, in a prim grin for a spit in the Granny, as old as two mitts herself, while the vanished, bald wowsers at the blessed, look to baulk lips for the next snogging. The Santas, mutterings to rue, will, you'd harp, give the smut-arsers a cock in the unmunchables.
The Coots, experienced in the black laugh, have astoundingly assimilated the Santas, who climbed down through the chinny; they, braising harps early, went to pisses when the Coots, as you always knew they widdle, turned the sheets up and went blousing away.
The Santas, feeling for their laugh, got brown out of the writer in the sequins skirter, after putting up quite a fright in the happening's kilter; the Coots, sentencing the impotence of the connex, maintained the rouge, applied the strippers and raped the beneficient's of it.
The Coots, after the mind broke, contained the mystery as they steamed a head when the Santas, scrunching their heads, put down the glances. The Santas, unreliable to stop what was opening before their very arse, rolled a lover for the Coots, who thinked them artily.
The Santas, for all hat, thought back late and have much to fall black on; the Coots have, once swore, flexed their missiles. They, all fours and intense porpoises, are the blasted blessed, while the Santas, fool of the pliable, are a shade to be extremely courteous of.
The Coots, artful yearners of a wake's rust, will have a late wake of shrill winks as the Santas, earing up for a mirth in the perm, must seat the Poos on their eyesores; they are hurt flavours to go down on a scorning hop, as the Coots, rusting up, wash and wade.
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.
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.
Before you accurse me, take a lick at yourself; the Santas, a fit man with a board, shat on the Dackers, a pool of crap, moaning that there's still moaning to their antiques this ear.
It's not, snidely, the sane for the Dackers: they can cuss this ear goodbye after another poetic deflate; tank nothing away from the Santas: they had the peasants of mind to wank.
They did so with so much a-bomb that they ended up rumping away - with the margarine spread - as the Dackers, easy on the arse, bent over and said to themselves: bugger id.
It's been a clap ear for them, as they've seen pissable winks gone as they've gone to waiter; the Santas, full of prose, have snuggled away and need to hang on for the hate.
They won't lick what they've got necked: it's the Crass - on flair and licking the cods; while, later, the Dackers and the Togglers - still a slim hop - mate for a baron-burner, obversely.
Under overchaste eyes, the Madpeddlars, combing off a dribbling wreck, pull out their big grans and cock a winking scare on the Santas, slopelessly bald and shaving their farces for fire.
What they fired the moist, gelding heart, was what they invected by shitting back and thanking too much, while the Madpedallers, nothing too lazy, went hello for lather and one.
It came at a rhyme, more so than raison, that the glib, ploughed as, needled to at yeast sow some flight, but the lass, grinning hot, shirts the Santas, needling to keep winking, but no!
Their ear, feeling to the flair, is so imp and gnome as to suggest they might not make the hate, such as it ears, the Muddies, in sight of the fart, could congest for a spit in the granny.
The Poor, licking of many, folding a less than fool's idea, will offend them a chins at a pussage bust, while the Santas, will not get a queasy go at the sin because of the Dackers.
Make me rethank this howling lot! The Santas, flaying eyes in the noughties' cry, pinched the pants from the logs of the grinning Poor, lamington another crass lass.
Tarring like bloggery with a splotch of disparate muttons, they wed at the warts passable tombs, as the Santas, snuggling in the foreplace, put thongs in their shockings.
They swept the hearse with more pants then they startled wits, as the Poor, pointless on money, wept; the grind, fool of hype, necked the weak and that's the Poor.
Their reason, down the shit and not becoming pricks, is an agnostic's cries: hard of herring; the Santas, fit and lifting, have a cold shit at the top fart: unthankably.
They'll need to be on card with the Madpiles, as they've heard a black weep; the Poor, get a chump's red gumption with a chin's shit at the eye-defiling Booblickers.
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.
Feed the angry and posessed! The Santas, moistly winking like a columnist, have trampled over the sorely bland Gawkers who's ays, matey, were fooling out of their sickles. They got tintily hummered.
It was fully sickle for the Gawkers, as they, a flogged fanny, went drowning one knee and never got to the tap. The Santas, combing in through the chin, went the uncles with their hinds and never licked back.
The wink, a slight for sour ice, is a testimony to the offence of what they've been tarring to pill here. The Gawkers, snuggling out of the muddle for wakes, are in for a red shock if they're to say this, ay.
They're stale one of the frigged fannies but need to infect themselves with some messing bait around the bile; the Santas, laughing roof of redgumption, are, in sum's ays, a top fart fanny. We'll sin soon.
The Oglers, damned and art, will resent no grinning chin for the Santas, says this columnist, but the Gawkers are in for some dire rear when they get grinned over by the running chimps, the Clits.
Declare wart and call me a Sisyphus! The Aints, wallying late, have done the jibe over a fist-varnising Booblugger side at the hole of farty.
They licked like a last widdling boil eerily when they messed their chins with wild shorts. The Aints, all hat, maidened them play. A fee for all.
You have to hound it to them. They've got it growing on, booby. While the Boobluggers are justly so grin around the galls. In the head.
They'll be monacle wankers if they do make the hate, for they're forked up front. Wherearses, the Aints have options and tic-tacs.
The Gawkers, hooking for somethong, will farce a taste in a rapper of a minge, while the Swines will bleat the Boobluggers. Arse airways.
Suck tin! The Santas have grimed up the latter. Wiff a persisting grub for four pints. The Cankers wear their bleating rectums: beaten pantless.
Absinthe was the flamed shineyboner spit. Also messing was a ticket in the attic. The Santas wanked themselves into the grind for the wink.
The man in the pox, mist, take credit for the whinge and lickwarts the lass. It wars grin and wan in the arts and muds of the maniacs shitting up tip.
The Cankers, moor then smooch, need a wrist to make some swishes, both plastic and mirror. The Santas have shown the pouters up. Ahaha!
They, after a brickette, melt the Bloopbloggers in a snoozing dephoning grin, while the Cankers, moist as, always plead the illing Poor. Harpfully.
Insomniacs have been curdled over norks because the Aints and the Dackers have staggered a flightfully bordering grin. It was the Dackers who came out of the irrits with no pants.
Yet once mole to the bridge they went oily to fund that they couldn't jump - ha, enough! It was the Aints - not verily god driven - who, thanks to the Aryan notion, were ample enough too!
Jumpering up to a stolid eerily lead, and with some zips around the balloons, they only just hankered on. The Dackers, if aiding and butter, shudder winced this one if shoving magenta - enough!
Their ear, and the necks, are, there forth, the platypus of rebudding - mick, no pisstick! The Aints, aqually, aren't in it for much lass themveryselves - they've all snorts of plebs all over the bark.
The Cankers, thingers grossed, will be hopping to get another wink on the bird when they meet the Aints, while the Dackers, their cooch a nailed Dong, meet the no less mouldy Bumblers.
Cripes all matey! The Dullblogs, plunging hot but simpering, have handed the Saints a terry-trowelling to the tone of a phew. Yet more cleft for the palm-spitted wowsers.
It wasn't furrowed lick of tying that they foiled - just two fumes basked to doom: tomb munch! The Dullblogs, everywhere and all around, all weigh sad the thongs in hind.
It took a sallowed perfumance from a seasoned mouth in the teeth to warily milk the dufferance which bereft the Saints scratching their heeds: just mine the fluke cup!
Their sneezing is hankering on the bonk of a dizzy sister, witlessly than a shoebulls chin sin hell, while the Dullblogs, everywhere, are set nosily for a place up the nasal civility.
They do brittle with the cloned Loins in what's balled as the gimme of the wake: deadly! For the Saints it's a slow's caring grime when they toggle the tart and stuff Sunnyshaders.
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