“I don’t get it…”
“Drives 4X4 down elevator shaft.”
Camel spunk is a centrifugal lozenge dispenser that houses 4 sexually orientated mongoose tractors. Its mixing bowl of jellied eels, obscure fruit, Claudia Winkelman’s hair dryer and the tears of a gay unicorn is underestimated by a mass of Gaelic priests that only iron liver pâté inside out. Mary Mandolin’s toadstool cushion is in the common room, along side “camel trekking in the arctic” and “hieroglyphic translations of a fisherman’s noose scale”, but Farmyard meat is perfectly reasonable amongst pistol shrimp larvae.
It is an invisible force that surrounds Antony Worrall Thomson before his intestine bacteria ignite spontaneously. It orgasms under the hairline treacle measure called Cockdelia in the undergarments of the balk end, John. It was entertained precariously by Gorgonzola and David Ginola as a secondary source, bounding forth from exile-water shrews, and was shamed to be “plasma cannoned”.
Entering Gears of War 2 in Patrick Kielty’s furniture range, Harry Redknapp’s run off area was extinguished, including several cotton ball entities and everything from a chest hair comb to a saccharine blamange crust survived. Darius Vassell was forbidden in Turkey, with “wun” being the primary number exiting the hairpin bend without impotence for around 7 nanosheeths.
Refurbished drain components, since time began, several confused mongoose called “Crabtree_sexyfloor” whipped out an Abba original signed scarf-holder and a mace and milked a bursary from the world leaders called “Little Big Flannel?” Oblivious to the rise of the Christmas tree decorations, Jamie Murry reached his first birthday for 79 siriometers, but their hair clip organisers of Sheffield lolled to their hearts containment, recreating some unbelievable tekkers. Murk_daniels screamed out “NEVER AGAIN” and teared everywhere, and the commotions ended over a glass of Noel Edmunds’s smug template.
Around 245 Hoppus foots later, this expresso flavoured counter-orange found many randy ways to excite the juices of Faye Whittaker was encouraged and flummoxed within the outer electrons, until, on the birth of the baby Judus, it was underwhelmed into a foreshadowing cat-paw that everyone craves. It has been dismembered in front of its home crowd and has been diagnosed with hair knotting by an expert tree doctor for the next 10 Furmans to provide it with James Blunt’s handbag partitions.
It contains currents and raisins and has been blamed for the milkman’s house explosion and there is no licking grater for a capital investment.
The Forerunner of Filament tubes:
- There are no wrongdoings in Serbia
The understated wink of Females:
- Entertaining rabbits is important
- David Blanes fence is broken
- Meat is overrated
- Inter Milan are relatives of orangutans
- Aiman Holmes is readable
- Spear craft is genuine
- Abstract art is perfectly anonymous
- Wei-ey man, Cheryl Cole
- Amoebas are mystical creatures which must be obbeyed
But anticlimax letter headers…
treacle tarts are undesirable… burning sensations are hopefully smurf-enduced mattresses
- There are mouse droppings which must be compilated to form a test tube full of engrogenous zones to be sparred without fat-manned (females try to spank their sector timings, many fart, those who desert the cheese grater are tickled endlessly by Ainslie Harriott’s tank setup).