barrelling along like gangbusters in the woodshed–something NARSTY in thar

pouring out the sweepitudes, ya. can’t break open the head with a munch, but all’s capital scarpy. will the nat ever….? jiggling continues to frebile the oaksters

or suppose the moop doesn’t ache? flaut that sausage, gnawer! that’s a ticket to indgestibles, the cavalcade of moonstruck bohemiants, deviuncles. monocular pursuits grab my cold shoulder.

or alternately: eating ONE godcicle

i’m sure, if the paternoster fails, no one casts about for g’nesha or sredni vashtar or unka legba

3 thoughts on “barrelling along like gangbusters in the woodshed–something NARSTY in thar”

  1. Patern roster, howardine bovine, shallow beedy mane. Try kind dome buns, try Willy’s dung, unearth acitone uneven. Gibbous disdain or Sally’s head and for hippos our trapezes asway forego hose who trapeze a justice. And Cletus, not into ten stations, Buddy liver assfarm weasel.

  2. nonsenseit’snonsense!

    Ah, shpung. I can scarcely muster up a “goobobble” for the masses this eve. Burp. I need a ride out in the out, but the nasty wet air just destroys my telp.

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