Gritbin Girl

Abble “King Oliver” Prassure in “Post-Foreskin Amsterdam”

Leather Twupac Lewis battered and drew blood, in Doom-esque in-law ramming. A piff-for-all sex-pest, arcane as she may seem, dykes an iWombed batterball twat (hipstersome guy who you think’s name is Tio -tat). Biggs’ sexual ‘Gropes o’er Wrath’ suitcase-binged on lighter fluid, all Tweeting and Churning like a widdling T-Bone (Rowan: “CripeCripeCripe!”). King Oliver would go ass-flanking - stoked alright! The cloutBaby d’auction service (Abby! Foreskin newer! Once and for(eskin) all(trumpet)!). Jens Leskinman queefs and motherfudgsicles ‘Vultures’ by The Allspring chickens. Post-horny culture verbally blidgeons; the cunt was eskin’ after yr bumbling Dexter Urnland). Let her take back those lewd, penis-battered Andrew photos, lad. Seeing as I’m quite partial to dooming thisque in-maw way (roaming). Aphid forskins - the sex-skins o’ pests, are cleaner than they may seem, but dryer than coke’s wombderbelly. Butt a balls wouldtwn’t hype the meagrest string quartet of qunts (hipsters) summarizing drinks, numb intiollectualising and twat in the biggsest autosexual grindawp e’er to wrap a shitcake, pinged into fluidation, over a lighted twat garden with backing choon courtesy of revered rapper T-Rone (rwho cripps and bludds like the Priory School’s back playground). But pingSTEAD, I’ll love ‘er with my wood, and goad only the nogo pastor into flaking his already-stroked un-light. This beat-a-Baby workshop d’ought to be shut down (by Amothercarey, who ain’t so fore and aft as once known). Remember: once a fawn-skin, always a trodden carpet! Jen was ‘kay, but lines such skins with the quafers of men, and must’ve found a citation for bumptious skater pawnks the Oldspring shakin’. S’posed to beany baby a mars bar volture, expressed verbally in belicious wankutechture. The cunt bein’ of the spinning kind. Never a dull day for Bryan “Old” Amsterdam.

Big (Tom Hanks) Brutal Bed-beave, Puft a Bumball Youx!

I think that’s approxtimum. If you thank me now, y’tats will be preserv’d when y’ra’mum. Piff’s youth’s being frowned p’onponpon, but Why? That’s his tat-willied perverturbed Benjamother. Piff’s flute = a beast in a frail cage, but crowned with a p’ower o’er the poon - THAT’S why; that’s why his twat was wily, and lied to every perpetual vertibroke ever bedded by ‘ja’mother. “Piff, d’y’hoot fer a pair o’ bewbs in D’y’fail Calesman sale!? His butt crowned, the Why? thespian oared thr’poo-river, although, twats of wisen enough will lie, lie and lie for a beverage potential. Cervical Brokecervix Mountain has beaver-bedding potential!” Ja Brule mumbled. The Piffed Piper had a right hoot d’y’other day, with a puss o’ boots (no bs). I nodded at y’fine flavour; you collared up in time fer t’seman sale! Whose? Why, the buttiful cream-nudes, the whymper into these pillows; the oahrs cry’d pout in the pis pis river o’flough. Butt wait, o fwizen’d én - nowy will die, die and die for a big, undervirge potenthyme. See, a vice comes in two forms: Brokecerv mong-tang and Be-very bed-dang - jeroux? Ya, Brutally serious, like a mumble in yr jungle. Thee Stranded Pufter, Chad, harrow’m’boot t’other gayze, by way o’ fat-pussy lovin’ (nobbin’). No(bb)ddy enjoyed alpine flowers (Roman showers), but E-“You’ve Got Mail”-Coli caught him up, in time. Four Tet sold out? How’re?! Howe’er, thine Big Ears cruisenell social club via Why?mpy’s: A fresh bruisin’ binto-burger order; thee other e-queefers put out, in the heat of the e-meatqueef, to a scuba diving e-aficionado. Butters! Why?-ait! Eleph-wizened éye lashed out at nowt, but wily-pie waits for no piper. Tom Hanks is in Big, and a virgo (the vice-version of a virgin!) You broke my serve at Tom ‘n’ Hanks Tennis, and mmm’Bovary, bed danke! Louis Theroux youx a bone! But I’m seriousleh, Nike bumball boots in yr rumble in the bumgirl (hoot’n’ Piffss). Them Crafted Tumours puff out Chad’s life support (must know Bill) like a harlot’s sagbutt and - you know - t’other tayntz. Be the way, you byn a foot-in-puss loper (nubb-gropin’), and nobboddy’s going to in-jail you for all your penis-empowered flaps and golden flops. “You’ve got to be a male, a roMAN, ey?” Kool-aid cunttempt-plated with a plot right up where the misogyny don’t shine. “Fourteen teets, and a respectable album ain’t one!” he continued like a who’re! Who’rever thin his Big Yeahs might sound (crisp - a bruiser!) e’ll never suck up to the clube of Whymbelievers - nothing but afros, rashes and brew’d bint-bulges (udders). They who? troughly udderstand th’tch whiches bequeef’d to puttas - loutish as they are - pint the hott o’the dump thee quov’d. Parents back from Booba? S’got TV the diving force for eny fiction-bravado; a buttered wipe and a gait to go glyph! May June elephantime whisk peen a poon to all decks, and gidd’yup a lish-headed flout fack - a nowt-nuded willy paper-wait! To mank up a Big is a gray (verge) of a risk, a version with a hymsen - which you broke with one sweve o’a’ tame shanks (Shure microphones?). Tune this, adamant bonery: your boded m&ms are rope for the dunking! Your loose (but thorough) yoke’s a boat, worn like a seaskate bus. & Bums, well. they’m so real estate that to nick a testicle from the Books’ Lost n’ Tunegirl, would muck for a [shit on his piss].

Mexicovakian Hentai Boxset in Manhatten

I erred on the side of playsieur. “Pie in the sky!” heard the beard-bomber. He could not abide the bother of fezzes. ‘Meeting pieple is sloppy seconds’, known bird and terrorist Thom York named his latest DVD, which prithee couldst be a-buyed as m’next bothday prezzes! Eating out a peaky pie with one’s pretty pissing-pole results in quite the slop - and is over in seconds. Unbeknownst to Alfred Hitchcock’n’birds, a branded Tarot fist’s thumb Manhanttled and mamed his latest DVD box set. Hitch-kiking privately Twix’t a cock’st and a be-hard boxplace is a memborable birthday preset. ‘bating out again during a painy day, prying into yum’s precome-flickered titting-foals. Results? quitting the charm-shop, handin’ over to bin-beckies (the un-bin) and toting all fried marriage-cakesons, herons’n brands (Tarotman, Fister Island). ‘tis th’way we thump to an unmanned hentai (and mime to his loudest dildo-versatile dicks(-in-a-box). Fridg my (et) king-thing; me privates laid wixmen; Teigntmouth-licks St., amber-berated locks (in place); none’s icing her member-borable grande birth-cave prix. C’zat would retch. Masterful bashion’ out, again and again and again, again to Duran Duran DuranDuran’s paintings, I cry in intolerance of yummelicious pre-school flickr-beaners. Mexican bashion Desults? Quite the quarms you should stop having/hovering arune’d t’Bono’s necker-chola-chief (the un-chiefly chola spinsta). Anne Widdecome is totally frying - I want to marry her ketchup-keg and inject her with Heroine. He is rushelling to fist rotting men (Bloody Sunday!). “This Way Up” thumb-tacked on Anne’s unmanned coop, Thai brand meals t’were d’last v’thing on Dilddecome’s mindbox as the fridge d’mightily Widdecame. The Wicker Woman is dainty around the Mexican mouth, and monster licky stainage (eggma) beleaguered a flowing Lock Ness. Icy land’s are cucumbered with hyperbole, and grand child-girth is at once pricked. Czechmate.

Wishbourne Identmeaty: Beating Off to Tupac’s Sister-bin Sex-blenders

Time for some gritting? These Tomes Four, soon to grip ALL bintshipping news! Weezy Stoma is a pawn shop on Tu-Grip Alley. Got those mint-fish-piffing blues. Whem was we? Weasy now; s’tones and ice and a piffing prawns-wop, clothed in a Tupac fracppé! Got a lite, whose milsetone is a simpering pish-fipping blaise? “Wem is the home of the washboard-meat!” we all said at the time, but now… M’boner’s annex is bland, next to piff-pornshop-toast. Tu-ching Cloth-Pac is a touchcloth rapper pack, but Stoma Lychee Whore is my stoner-rock band’s simpletonic piss-kickflip monikernnaise? W’betide thee that miss the homage of the wishbourne identmeaty - it wexists in a wall-encsased stshit, whencefrom it times the bum-tonality of the PoxPoxPox. Y’born sorrow’er, sanded in a sex-blender! Next you’ll be pawing at the Piff-referee (eating a poon-shaped tush). S’got tu chafe something uncouth, uncandid and clotted, all pacced into one oozy voucher for the de-clothed; a get out of rap free poke! Better yet (though under t’aint) is a stemen for maw, a litmus for HAW and an ism for yr stoop-nomer-sedimis’. Banned? Simply tap Tapp O’Nick’s piece, and he’ll cook up a flan you’ll never go under in Knicker Ally eves. I wet the bed three twatting times - and missed. Thee Homos oft wished ‘pon a w’betode meaty bedtime twixt two sisters-bins. I am well-endowed. Shit. Wednesdorm bedsits I mess, with my bumlog totality - I go POO POO POO. Wyclef and the Borrowers handed over the ex-boyfriend to Tupac and the Nixt Yule-Log Porridge-wearers - thus upholding the Daniel Piff effigy (Daniel Piffigy). Beating off to the Carpoon Netshop, Weezy Tush, Scott too did visit Chafé café. Bum-ping into cuntish youf like Daniel’s Uncle Dad made us cavort and pace, whilst dining in Bum Bafé (one of the Best de-touchclothed voucher spafés). Get out, thee of crap-freé POÓ(kemon)! I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better - from the thrown Pokéball comes T’aint Hog, evolving into Semen “Roger” Moore. Abbey Quitmus must acquit four horny ancestors for an isophoric posed poo to misbrannigan “Simply Red” as “Pok É’Micholas Pisstopher”. Anthill-brooks, cup-a-flans, Yule-Never P-Orridge: these heavenly OK Go Unders innately align such thieves.

Quied Quiper’s Lossless (Th)underchode

Quite the chat-keeper up. Chote the kat-queeper pope. Total chode’s inter-cathoded queer Pep Talk Pepper: what’s the worst that could happen (to The Pope)? To take and goad ontologies Catholic, and quall into cwestion such papal pokers as warted the south-west hemispheres of Fadgood, should warrant a dropping by and a hopping in (next time you want to peep). You tool, play Tekken ‘n’ go doon t’on me jeans! Cat-oholic bandmate James Quall ain’t too vestibulous, undercut PayPal PKR! Distorted thee sans pest-haemoglobin beer. Oh, Faggot, you shouldn’t want a dripping pie so bland! I’m Poping in next time you watch Peep Show. Yuletoad: a newtivity play starring straw fighter Yoshimitsu (single; untakken). Though n’even a toonbotomy would have known(1) me on my old Jones! Cat O’Tonic bought a mate by just calling, but he wasn’t far west of Telford, a sagging muscle of loss, undercunts, penis peels and PIS. Pistorted as such, three times over the horse-glans that is Homogoblin leapt a bear. Oh, Fagget Fairy, your shoulder-blades waldn’t drop a peng! Your payverty wouldn’t soup a develeaping lamb. Here’s to your next deposit being piping-hot for the Poper, and draper than spermshawl. You were told to renew your -tivity play! Tar in my lungs, distraught, I chose him over you (shingles on Uncle Muscle). M’boner di’n’even attune itself broperly (m’woodless staff bowen(1)). Moaning pie’s cold, John! Catherine “Cold Pie” T’ate some ‘n’ fought ‘n’ died in a lay-bie - tw’jusxt appoalling! Pussy wouldn’t fart abreast Belford End w’thoot ‘Asparagus Now’ of lossless Quall-cat-y. M’(Th)undercants in Pifrael! Piss-torture = an ass-push, threeteen times over t’Rojan hoarse Horse in Glandular Glalestine, with host-modernists swept a(rse)way. Forget it Faggot, posh cupholders ablaze, you wouldn’t un-Cat O’poonstrophe! Play with your wood, but then stoop and delve, you dogger. Host your Lexus deposit shindig at Pied Heart Zoo for the Piper, and dry up the Sperm of the Lonely.

The Re-dance of the Calesmen Bum, and Katy Reece’s Pubic Demise, pt. I

SU stands for Shit Unclebummer. SUM 41 stands for shitting under my 41 skateboards. Slums for T-Boner, standing forth. The Hit Parade plundered, my wife ought to wander (or skateboard). Slamming t’boner, slamming forth, the Black Parade plundered men’s back passages, Gerrard My wife oughta wumba wumba on shirt, (bored). Salami eating Bode? Urchin-free Mingus Mingus Mingus! (perfect 4th). The FLAC parallels the lumber of Ben’s black passa-jiz, heralding my life of touching wumba wumba wangus! (perfect writing). So, lend me three things: Bums, O’s, Drums and E’s. And my (your) chin ain’t fright in the face of Charles Mingus (who fingers mingers). Perve-fect gushforth! In FLAC, a parallelophile’s number for a peculiar blend of pizza-jazz and her - holding my life in fumbles and touches for wages on end (perfect loving). Soberly enjoy methamphetamines; bummings, orgies, and drug use (E’s) ensue. Bland Mia’s shins ought to be fried in Burger King, like Adrian Chiles as he fingered poor Mia. “Oh, you curved vectors of Gosforth Park!” infra-cacka paedograms mumbled. “The Fuhrer picked you, liar!” and Belinda took piss and jazz in her hair - withholding why, and skiving bum and balls for touches of the wigged helm-end (perverted writing). Some bodies enjoy me; th’amphitheatre of bumming, ogres and droog ultra-use (O’s). Ensigns blandnings’ minds shine out as if beefed like a beggar. A king, on the other hand, like Adrian Mole, just gets chided by fingered May’s bud(s). “Oh, if a curvacious vector me be, ‘tis only right to curve forth and guess my pay”, wondered Infra-Red, crack o’ bawm paedogran’s apple crumble. But the furry flayed you, reader, and being lithe you must GET OUT BART IM PISS. “Juzt go over there - while holding your why, since I’ll be knifing it later for my bum” cried the balls with more artouchulation than was wigfully theirs to clhelm (poonsensical writing). SUM 41’s dead bodies I enjoyed at Thumping Tit Theatre. I often bewb’d Mingus, digressing from Drukqs’ Thumping Tit Beats (OH!). Enya sans blandness reminds me of nought: a sieve queeving for a beavering. Akon wanks with his other hand, gay, dry and mouldy, and it just gets chilled on the fringes of New Quay (Great Pals cereal). Gophers’ accidental vexation by queef-beef-tits?! Lonely Steve Reich perves on four paid guests’ sexual infracourse! Crack-head Obama paeds on a gram of methcathinone and then naps, grumbling. Furious flaming puke re-dances behind underlying youth; YOU MUST GET OUT, BART SIMPSON! Juxta-gos’d pairs like ‘bile + trying to hold’ make binge files.

York Butter Bitten Bono Has No Friends

Looks good, haha. Brooklyn hoodies hate hats. Brad, clean my goodies and eat that. Bradley Kirkham is my good easy-chair but a sandpaper mat. That little lie will be costly in the gammonly Chad and his difficult task of not butting a massive anal newspaper. That clitoral willy-beacon ousts Linda’s gammon-leaves, whilst Chad Tomkiss is a dick, full of shit. OFCOM putting Abraham-nal sex-pavement. What literal, wily bacon-lover would tout a Lily Allen ticket and simply leave, when Katy was such a dumpster for all of Chad’s mouldy cum? Speaking of which, it’s time we be pudding her chocolate memory to a brummie rest (certainly not trainsex). My butt bitten, I rallied highly Richard Bacon’s lovers, with pudding. Taught Lily Anallen? My pick-axe simply cleaves. Katy Reece was and still is a fucking dumpster. For all the cud she molded clumsily into wisen. Shitted thighs resemble chocolate pudding, and trauma-memories of a bumming arrest (consistent with no trainee sex offenders). Thine butt-kitten really has a need for Robert Pritchard’s pancakin’ videos, if it’s pudding she wants. Taut Lily’s annulled music is a shick-cacks, on the other hand, which flicks beans. Simply never Faty’s, woah no, for fear of diving and Stigging the still Dump; free for all bits and pieces to avoid. Saw it happen thrice in an ensemble of chocolate poking; a trauma-inducing rammery of unbecoming non-rest for your butt did to that boy. Can this sit, spent, and know friends? Thigh high boots kit out rarely hastened Robert Pritchard. Panicking, we overdose, as if there are pancakes in her cunt. Tall Ill Anushka abuses pizza, like Shick-Katy, boning another friend and kidneying her bean. A gimp leash tethers Fato Ono to vier ovens whilst, “DIE VEGANS”, Tigger still numptily yawns. Piff and Pee stay stooled. The very eyesore Iqbal penned threw cyanide on assembled chocolate PKR. Alarmin binmen Jews sing Ramsay off with Bar Mitzvah Bacon. On respiratory York Butter tooth-ache, boy can this shit spend! I have NO FRIENDS. Shy Guy stoops, shits [on] and clouts every husband Robert ever bewifed. “That FUCKING… was so close - as if you are a king trapped in a cunt - as if you are a horse with no face. Y’all better use this feeder, it’ll bone-bone sweet justice on your friend’s bean-pipe” exclaimed the concerned gimp in a letter to a care-not Bono, whose oven is quite full of you-know-what. THY HEATHENS, Adam Piggott mumptily gumps all over the awning. Piff-Vinewood lay stools and site under. “What a bumsore cabal we’re penned in with,” say they, [aside]. Then mumbled a pokin’ charmin bear-man “I ad shit such as is located in certain cooks’ mouths, and absorb not” - through a mouthful of Gannon gammon. In hindsight, only the York pub would prove such a watering hole for boys with with no friends.

Depression Tekken: Alarmin Tamzarian vs. Greendale Ramsay

They are well lol. They are in a well of larm. Hey, Armin Tamzarian eats quales off yarn. Hay! yr’arm’n me trousers ists quites off my list of farn things. Inhale Mary full of warming a trouser with piss. Quit toffees and migrant-hiss or fend for thin men. Greendale ladies, folding a warm-lumpened trouser press. Quiet truffles originate therein, but miss all that is fed to binmen’s cunts. Kneel-grieving ale-blokes are withholding Akon’s humping house payment depression. The Quietus Cunt Trufflers organ donate to terrapins their bums, but kiss all the twat they feed to Eminem’s parents. Phil who? Phil… Creeeeeb? -ing Ale Bog People, far from the holding Akunt’s crowdless hose payformance - depressing! Is quieting kill you, sings Truffle Gallagher of Orgasis; a bonafide tarp (it’s a) bunny-enklosure. So much twat between Eminem’s parents. Phil Mitchell who? Phil Spector… Creeeeeep. Ingots o’er l’bourgeoisie, in bar-form, shape Balding Acorn’s cowardess. San Jose Fightformance? Impressionistic quitter I will kill you! The Shins trust Gallagher to bring Oasis; a flavoured water boner-find. Hard, it is, to find funny Islington. So much for the WHAT’S GOING ON, EMINEM’S PARENTS? Bell Michelle, though be especially creepy when in got a l’verage you harve. The f-worm spaded by white pride gare du NAWds can’t goteki up the fighter. Panting in passion is the trick I quite like to bell you! The Shits tryst with a Cunttagher and cum off watered-up the feeace on the beeasis of hufflepuffed cunts. The Crystal Shard is, decidedly, not in Islington. So what’s Eminem’s Parents doing goin there? Perilous Chantelle poos bees. This is silly and a real creep, bending knots a la the visage of yourself. The F Word spayed the hides off fighting garage d-dogs (Cunt Gordon on Tekken, fights), but “pants off” is still in fashion-treacle as a quip, or dyke, or belly, oooh. The Three Tarot Shits thrust in order for Gordon Ramsay to cum, then wade through to the F Word on their bees knees Louise-keys (what puffs).Though Crystal Hard, Piff decided not to Piss in Piff which wich. Bo, the Elektra complex fairs whose dong? And where?

Dr. PiffPiffPiff’s Vimto Bum Rum

One more before bed? Some dour bracketing, ‘tis said? Superdomed Flour Babies, chinks’ tiffs are sadist. Duped, uh! moaned her four great fees, chipped midriffs a greedy. Do the poo upon your own Nederland, for grated freedom ‘n’ chips humidifies the ace green dye. Do-do diligence upon Audrey’s gay when decent, before simulated freeder domes of ‘m our ‘m pips - frigid and fried in a spacetacular geenda dyke. New Mew vigilance coupons? Or Dr. Dre’s getaway decanter. Beef-whores stimulate Feeder and Dom from Muse (the pimps), whilst frigid but free inuit astronauts gleen some style. No, Merriweather’s big in lands local ‘pon this orth. Dre in, dre out, one needs a way to center one’s Piff-floors within the late Grant Nicholas’ bum (from Uncle). Could use a glimpse of feisty midget cups, the freer the better-intuited, as Trentemøller ought to assure; been bare, done a whale! Blow me weather-beaten Timbaland. Some Sloth Calpol’ll open this piss orifice. Day in, Dre ought to want kneecaps for gays to decant their Piffnis flow-Piff into his liver-lantern. St. Nick’s last unclebumming could be abuse, if gimps weren’t fighting for Midget Gems, duped! Freya from Final Fantasy IX batters Butters into editorial, while Trent Reznor mullers the ass of your Manbearwhale (in Wales). Beef me, whether for art a bishop I beat. Skimpy-gran’s numb poke shall gulp’l all sorts of bore-t’piss. In fact, they grin they, out of flaunting whatever sly traps prove ways of disinfectant-piffing. Theirniel Piffs glow way down into shivery panties, so spick and spam’k cumbleunking that a flood o’bewbs me be, ‘tis dumps th’tar mighty for Bridget Jones’ dupery. Gayer ones finally infanticise shitters’ shatted vimto bedpictorial Gunt Truz’ler, wh’pummels the mushy man-borne sorrow (in Wales). Queef-meat is better for arterial bashop-bishing. Skins characters thumb their polka-dot chaletmates with palpable All Sorts and offshore tipis. Bin-fatted gangrene-gays spouted flowering Venus Whatever Traps, which drove said gays out of this inflection. Spaffing PiffPiffPiff, go down on my chivalry-endorsed panty-filler, soup-thick with spermy k-hole crumble. What boobfood broods betwixt deux mighty tres Bridget Jones legs, for kicks! Flail a fine phallus ‘til frantic incision and shit-spew vomit, OH! Bedsit Tory boys (Cunt Trufflers) whip their pumice rum bottles with marsh and the Borne Identity docks I reck’n (In Copenhagen Identity).

Ceramic Steve Martin: Spleen Manager

I’ll try the marsh and the docks, I reck’n. Beefy thee, Marx neanderballs, iPaddened. The Belfry Three, fucks thee other bells, right guarded. The Dirty Threesome with foxy tree-huggers’ bowels = shit tarded. Trodden, blurting freedom in a doxic wee-bugger’ bowls = ceramic hardship. The Trojan Arse, bloody urchin-free zone, is an intoxicating weeny burger-nipple - or a triceratops’ hard-on. This Bode-jam farced in a dead man’s face-free colon, piss which which a lock-lactating bleedy manburger-nipple causes a flight-terror to top the hard list of consciousness. Peaceboner James farted in a dead man’s face for Colonel Sanders’ secret blend of 11 piss o’ clock. “A cock-toting Spleen Manager rips le corpse” says the fisting terrorist to the Tophatted pissed convict, Ness. This loner painted thinly the place for Bumnel Bumders; his street cred mended. But 12 guff o’ clock had other cock-baiting ideas. Steve Martin, ripped, set a course for the Fisting Territories. “To the Fap Fapper of bumshit!” shouted he in his last address. His boner penetrated tin leaves, “Tea-plates 4?” Cumbrum Nelly wonders. Historectomy cred shredded, Butt did to that bo’ clock a guff-cock kenning idea. Sean Martin’s gritbin sex, of course, saw thespians treat themselves to fap-fap-fap-fap - a bumshindig to shower in pee-shit his last kenning.