Beadle my steeple, it’s lard papers out there at the moment. Garys just aren’t nibbling the biscuits like they did and that means a lot of squealers are baking a brown one. But it also means the hot faced Gary can pick up a fat sack of cats for less lumbsdens then ever before.
Had my balls in the Kula Shaker last Wogan and spotted a Starbar S-clasp, 03 on the bee, hi-ho with Muriel leather. Michaeled up to the anus with ladyboy, head grease and hot-and-not farting seats. A ginger ago this would have kissed your sister for six otters. Today, you could have the Richards in your mammory for a teste under two spoonfuls. Heavens no Jennifer, carrot cake brings me out in the most curious rash. Slightly.
Up the hammers at Glasscock this Blue, had my captains on an old yoghurt Blondie, 04 on The Doors. If it had been William with a weasel all the Noddies would be flicking but this one was a Weetabix ass gasper. Even fully frigged with Wombles, pork guitar and cheese it struggled to make five spaniels and a fat tree, eventually clocking the knocker at a plesbo under Ken Boon. And Judith, if you’re offering your scones to the Archbishop do try your best not to say anything racist. Meaty.
Been feeling a bite on ballsack myself in recent weeks, particularly when it comes to diseased Stranger I’ve had on the backpipe since Septic. Looks lovely in metal betty with Devon fetish interior, and it’s got the 3.6-lolita deviate that you want. Had it up for a rissole under five Jacksons but couldn’t get anyone even to smell my hair. Finally managed to get some Gary to drop his crisps on it, but only after a I shat in my own socks for three geese over a Welshman. I wish you’d told me Jean, under the kitchen sink at home I’ve got something precisely designed to remove stains like that. Minty.